M A I D E N . V O Y A G E
by Alex Rubber
(c)2002 Alex Rubber. All Rights Reserved.
http://www.alexrubber.com
She was annoyed and tired. He'd been going on at her for days about it and now,
finally - on a Friday night of all nights - she'd found herself backed in to a
corner and forced to act out his silly little fantasy. All she really wanted to
do was sit down and watch the TV, but the prat had insisted she dress up and
play Mistress to his slave.
He was in the bedroom changing in to god-knows-what. She was in the spare room
with the clothes he had selected lying on the bed. Same thing as last time,
rubber catsuit and gloves, patent calf boots with the silly heel on them. There
was the letter as well, where he set out what she would do to him.
Who was supposed to be dominating who? she wondered. What amounted to a script
("Please, Mistress, please beat me just so and call me such and such") and a
costume put him in control. If she was going to play this game then maybe she
ought to be a little more involved in the plot?
Dutifully she sat on the edge of the bed and pulled herself in to the rubber
suit. It was tight and damned hard work to get on. The end result, even she
could not deny, was pretty impressive. Still only in her late thirties she was
tall and slim, thanks to a regime of healthy eating, exercise and genetics. Her
breasts were small, barely a B cup, her bottom as pert as it could be in a woman
of her age. Her features betrayed a little of her Germanic grandparents, while
her blonde hair, long and straight and a little lower than her shoulders, had
that crisp quality only Germans seemed to manage.
Alone and unhappy she sat on the edge of the spare room's bed and looked at
herself in her "uniform." Of course it made her husband happy, and she couldn't
deny she didn't enjoy the intensity of the sex during the game. But it was his
game, with his rules and his desires at the forefront. What about hers?
There was movement on the landing, a clear sign he was ready for the games to
begin. No doubt she would walk in to the bedroom and find the toys he wanted to
play with set out on the desk by the wardrobe. For a moment she lamented not
being more actively involved in this part of their lives, that she hadn't gone
to the sex and fetish shops with him and chosen her own tools to use on him.
She'd been uncomfortable with the idea that she, a successful solicitor in a
small town, should even court such ideas. And they were ideas because not once
had she had a fantasy about this part of her life.
The script, a hastily written slip of paper, was in her gloved hands. There was
the usual stuff, let him kiss her boots, beat him a bit, tie him to the bed and
beat him a bit more, then - the final insult - let him lie on top of her and
fuck her. She shook her head, screwed it up and tossed it in to the bin. It was
hardly the inspiration she needed at the end of a really bad day.
She stood and looked at herself again and asked herself, "What do I really,
really want?"
Then she turned so she could see her back and her bottom and asked herself, "If
I were in control right now, what would I really, really want?"
The locked wardrobe was where they kept the "toys." Catsuits, rubberwear,
leather restraints, devices to inflict pain on every part of the body (but not
too much, he didn't like too much pain). A small pile of magazines sat in the
bottom drawer, along with various metal rings and leather straps designed to
hurt the genitals. She picked a few out at random and flicked through, taking in
the images of women in power and men grovelling helplessly at their feet. It was
painfully staged and the women were never more than late twenties with perfect
bodies. Was that what she wanted?
Again she looked at herself in the mirror. She liked the catsuit, the way the
shine of the latex added extra dramatic emphasis to her slight bosom and the
gentle swell of her stomach. She liked the way the zip between her legs
restricted the ability of the material to stretch, creating a more positive
shape to her bottom. She liked the way her almost natural blonde hair hung round
the shoulders, contrasting with black rubber and framing her face.
"I do feel sexy," she said. "I do feel powerful."
The clock on the table next to the head of the bed told her she'd spent fifteen
minutes on this period of self-doubt leading to discovery. For a moment she
wavered and thought about her poor husband, fretting about whether or not she
was going to walk in or not. But then she thought, "fuck him. When I'm ready
I'll show."
"Get out here," she said firmly, standing on the landing by the top of the
stairs.
There was movement from inside the bedroom. Clearly the poor dear was confused,
and judging by the loud rattling of chains, not entirely able to move swiftly.
She returned to the spare room, sitting first on the bed, then on the wicker
chair in the corner. With legs crossed and hands resting on the arms of the
chair she waited for him to appear in whatever costume he had designed for
himself.
Tonight it was elaborate. The basis was a black lycra catsuit. Around his waist
was a corset that took a few inches off, while the thigh high, black patent
boots added around five inches to his height by virtue of their spiked heels.
The man's face was hidden beneath a latex mask that had only small slits for his
eyes and a third slit for his mouth (plus a couple of holes for his nostrils).
The slits were lined with zips that she could fasten if she (he) wanted him
silent and blind. His head was held up by a stiff leather collar, designed for
that task, which was where the complicated latticework of chains started. There
were leather bands around his wrists, just over his elbows, thighs, knees and
ankles. All of these were connected in a way that restricted his walking to a
hobble and locked his hands up on his chest.
And then the final touch. Against this backdrop of shiny black lycra, hard black
leather and cold silver steel was a pink thing hanging out of the crotch. Even
now, in a semi-placid state, it looked rather intimidating, and she knew it was
more than capable of swelling a lot more. Yet at the same time it seemed
slightly pathetic, hanging there unprotected, almost begging to be touched.
For the first time she felt free to be honest about him. Before she'd been
nervous about it, fearful that she might damage his sensitive ego. But why the
hell should she care now?
"You look stupid," she said bluntly. "You look like a pervert who should be
locked up."
"Yes, Mistress," he said weakly. Clearly he was shocked.
"Oh don't be so fucking silly," she snapped.
With her finger she gestured for him to turn round, which he did. She'd seen the
outfit before of course, it was one of his "favourites", but today it looked
different. Or maybe she just saw it differently.
"Do you realise how stupid you look?" she demanded.
"No, Mistress."
"I mean, look at you."
Something came over her and she lunged at him, grabbing the chain that ran from
his collar downwards. She physically spun him round to face the mirror on the
wardrobe door, almost knocking him over in the process.
"Look at you," she said. Her voice was full of new found confidence, a
confidence to express how pathetic she found this so called "man."
His movements were slow and careful and she could see him tremble. Was it fear
at this display of aggression? Or maybe pleasure from being turned on by it. Not
that she really cared that much.
"Let me tell you what you are wearing. You are wearing a woman's lycra catsuit,
the sort of thing women wear when they go ballet dancing. And you are wearing
high heel boots, the sort that women wear when they want to look like sluts. You
are wearing a corset, the thing that women wear when they want to change their
figures. What is it with you? Do you think you're a woman?"
He shook his head as best he could given the restriction of the collar.
She reached round and took hold of his exposed cock in her thumb and forefinger.
She shook it playfully, watching it bounce in the mirror before letting it fall.
It twitched a little, then fell still.
"You've got garden chain on, a mask made out of condoms and leather round every
limb of your body. You're tied up so you can't move quickly and your balls are
hanging out. Not really a symbol of male machismo, are you?"
"No, Mistress," he said.
What was that she detected in his voice? Genuine embarrassment? Had she finally
touched a nerve with him and told him what he feared to hear? After years of
playing his silly games could it be that when she finally wanted to play he
couldn't cope with it?
"No Mistress, yes Mistress, three bags full Mistress. What am I? Your kept
woman?"
"No, Mistress," he said. She detected the confusion in his voice and the pause
before he answered betrayed the thought in his mind that he should not answer.
"I don't want you calling me Mistress anymore. Is that understood?"
He nodded again. It made her smile.
"I have a name, and I expect you to use it. It doesn't matter if I'm dressed in
rubber or my suit, you will show me the same respect and adoration. Understand?"
"Yes, Sophie."
That surprised her. She knew the Mistress tag made the fantasy more real for
him, allowing him to disconnect from the reality of his solicitor wife and
connect with his fantasy domina. If this game was for her then she wanted it
played on her rules, and for her there was no fantasy dominatrix.
"Let's take this stupid mask off, shall we?"
The chains got in the way, so she unlocked the collar and let it hang by its
chains. A minute or so later she was looking at the bare, hot, sweaty face of
her husband. His cheeks were bright red and for some reason he was unable to
maintain eye contact with her.
"I threw away your silly script," she told him. She was walking round him now,
hands folded across her chest, nonchalant strides demonstrating her position of
authority. "I don't want to play your games any more."
That got him. His head dipped a little in disappointment.
"You see, my little perverted husband, I don't want to follow the same script
and say the same words time after time. I don't want to tie you up and beat you
because that's what it says in the little world you've created for yourself. I
am going to create my own fantasy world where I am at the centre and you may -
or may not - have a small part. And let's face it, that placid thing is small."
He flinched.
"Do you understand me?"
"Yes, Mi - Sophie."
She let the slip pass. A plan was forming in her mind.
"This weekend," she told him, more or less relaying the decision as she made it,
"is about me. You will do everything I say, no matter how much it hurts you or
makes you feel uncomfortable. I will do as I want when I want and you will not
complain. Understand me?"
"Yes, Sophie."
She went to the wardrobe and hunted around inside for a few moments. His eyes
widened when he saw the gag she had in her hand. There was a thick leather ball
fixed to a leather strip that had a variety of straps hanging off of it. It took
her a couple of minutes battling with the buckles and the straps, but finally it
was fitted snugly over his head, silencing him.
"Better," she said. She stood close to him, pushing her body against his.
Between her open legs she felt his cock twitching, rubbing her inner thigh. "You
like it when I'm in rubber, don't you?"
He nodded.
"You like to watch me walking around in my rubber suit, don't you?"
Again he nodded.
"I have a special surprise for you."
She turned and hunted again in the wardrobe. Bent over, she pushed her bottom
out, swaying her hips from side to side in a deliberate tease. It had the
desired result, as when she turned she was confronted by an erect pink pole in
the middle of his blackness. She smiled at him, suggesting with her expression
that she was pleased with his display.
"I excite you then," she said and he nodded.
With her hands behind her back she walked behind him, looking him up and down
and allowing him to cast his eyes over her. Stood out of his sight she flipped
the hood open and pulled it swiftly on over his head. Thick, lined leather
covered him completely, blocking out all light and pressing down on his face.
Only two little silver eyelets let any air in and she knew that very quickly he
would get very hot inside.
"Let me make something very clear," she said, leaning close to his ear. "You are
no longer my husband. You are just a pervert that it suits me to use at this
time. When I am finished with you I will cut you free and move on to the next
pervert that suits me. Do you understand?"
He nodded. She watched his chest, rising and falling as he took deeper breaths,
some of it from the mask, some from his excitement or fear. It was exciting her,
knowing that she had this control over him. Could she push him further?
"If you're not my husband," she said matter-of-factly, "then I see no reason to
use your name. I'll call you pervert, because that is what you are, isn't it,
pervert?"
He nodded and she couldn't help herself but laugh. The lycra and leather doll
looked so funny as he stood impassively, taking her abuse with a hard-on as
thick as any she'd seen on him. She was turned on as well, but not in the
out-and-out sexual way that she usually felt. This was deeper, radiating from
the very depths of her soul and embracing every fibre in her body.
"I don't want to be associated with your name either," she said. She was stood
in front of him now, her hands smoothing over the leather mask as if stroking
some obedient pet. "Do you remember my maiden name, pervert? Do you remember it
is Greene? I want you to call me Miss Greene, so you remember each time you say
it we are no longer married. Understand me?"
As he nodded she lifted the fallen collar and untangled the chains attached to
it. Putting it round his neck she fastened it as firmly as she could, the thick
leather of the mask offering some resistance. He was trussed up again, unable to
defend his privates, unable to move at anything faster than a shuffle.
She stepped back and looked at him. He looked pathetic, a semi-cross dressed
weirdo unable to move. Yet that same pathetic stance made her feel good about
herself, made her want to do more.
Which was when the wave of anger hit her.
She didn't know where it came from, or why. It just came and took her over. In
an instant she was stood so close to him her breasts were pushed in to his
chest. One hand grabbed what skin she could on his chest. The other circled the
base of his penis and pulled and twisted hard. His muffled protests just made
her more angry, and more willing to twist.
"You little shit," she hissed through gritted teeth. "You think this is all a
game. You think you can cum and it all ends. Well it won't. I'm going to make
you beg for me to stop. I'm going to make you wish you had a whore for a wife
who just lay on her back and got fucked. You want to be a sex slave, well here
you are, pervert. Hope you enjoy the fucking ride because I'm going to."
She let go and stepped back. He was panting now, fighting for breath in his
mask. A moment of concern crossed her mind, but then it vanished and she
wondered why she'd bothered.
"OK, pervert," she said from the bedroom door, "we're going to start this maiden
voyage in ten minutes in the living room. Make sure you don't keep me waiting."
She walked out on to the landing and crossed to the stairs. That moment of doubt
crossed her mind again. A little voice said, "how is he going to manage to
hobble down the stairs?" A louder one said, "fuck that. Let him sort it out."
She followed the advice of the second one.
--
By the time he'd managed to hobble his way downstairs she'd turned on the
computer and hunted down their digital camera.
"You took your time," she said. It was a throw away remark.
He sort of nodded and she laughed.
"You look so funny."
She took him by the shoulders and steered him in to the corner of the room. He
stood there, trussed up and blind, not sure what was happening. That made it
more exciting.
"Say cheese," said Sophie playfully.
She took a single image, then crossed over to him and made him turn around.
"Push your arse out, pervert. Make it look like you want me to smack it."
Another picture. They were quickly loaded on to the computer and she sat
admiring them.
"You have a very nice arse," she told her husband. "Very spankable."
He grunted.
"Now, let's look at this a minute."
Her gloved fingers moved swiftly over the keyboard. A couple of times she cursed
as her fingers didn't quite land where she wanted them. Touch typing in latex
gloves, she mused, was not as easy as it should have been.
"Would you like to hear this?" she asked him.
He was still stood in the corner, almost forgotten. He sort of nodded again.
"I've addressed this to a chat room for dominants on the Internet. It says:
Dear fellow Mistresses,
I am just starting to explore my dominant side after a few years of following my
husband's scripts. I want to explore different ways of hurting and humiliating
the little shit as, until now, he has very much been in command and set out what
he wants. To give you some idea of what I'm up against, two photographs of him
as currently attired are enclosed.
I would appreciate any help, links to suitable sites etc that anyone here can
offer. I'm based in North West London, if that helps anyone.
Thanks in advance,
Lady Sophie."
She looked at the words on the screen. For a moment she hesitated, wondering
whether she was making the right decision. Then a click and the message was
gone, uploaded to a website for all the perverts to see.
Her eyes fell on the riding crop she'd brought down with her, lying on the
coffee table. Picking it up she turned it over in her hands a few times, then
flicked it through the air. The whoosh it made filled the room and made her
pervert flinch a little.
"Not scared, are we?" she asked him.
He nodded.
"Good," she said.
The computer burst in to life. It started spewing messages across the screen as
people responded to her post. She tossed the crop to one side and sat down,
looking at the text flying past the screen.
"Oh, this is fun," she said.
A couple of controls were set and the computer started speaking the messages
flowing past.
"Beat his arse", "Use a strap-on on him", "Film you beating him."
Sophie laughed as eager perverts, distant cousins to her own husband, sat at
their keyboards and typed out message after message. Quickly she worked out who
to ignore, and who to let through.
And then she sat, chatting on her computer with like-minded people. She quickly
forgot her perverted husband, still stood on his heels in the corner of the
room. Instead her focus was on the conversations she was striking up.
She'd been in here before, although then she'd just sat and watched what
happened. The rush of men every time a woman appeared in the chat room had
frightened her at first, until she'd learnt how to filter them out. Now she was
able to concentrate on the six people she really wanted to hear from.
For an hour she chatted. Ideas flew at her. Ways of hurting him, humiliating
him, abusing him, having him pleasure her, having him perform for her, how he
should dress and act, how she should dress and act, it all raced past her eyes.
She flicked in to websites and answered eMails as people focused their
collective wisdom on her.
Arrangements were made and plans set in motion. Huge swathes of text were copied
from web sites and pasted in to a Word document she'd called "Dealing with
Pervert." As the file grew larger she would go back to it, picking up on phrases
or ideas. They stimulated ideas in her mind, flashes of inspiration.
Her hand drifted absent mindedly down to her crotch, gently stroking the rubber
over her sex, teasing herself a little. All these ideas were floating around in
her head and there, still stood in the corner, was something she could try them
out on.
She said her farewells and switched off the computer. The time for talk was
over, now it was time for action. And what action she had planned in her mind.
Oblivious to the contents of his owner's mind, he stood in the corner, balanced
on his heels, looking in to nothing but his leather mask. It was amazing, she
thought to herself, that even after an hour of being left alone and ignored he
still managed to have a large swelling in his crotch. She wondered what went
through his mind.
She stepped up behind him, pressing her body against his bottom and back. Her
hands went under his arms and started stroking his chest. She let one hand slip
down, pushing firmly on his cock and balls as she played with him, the other
rubbing his chest. His body was shaking and she could hear his breathing deepen
as his relaxed in to the sensuous world she was creating for him.
"My poor husband," she said in his ear. She rubbed her face against his leather
mask, which brought a little squeal from inside it. "You longed to see your wife
as your dominatrix, dressed all in rubber and controlling you. You wanted to
feel my rubbery body against yours as I tied and beat you, didn't you?"
His head moved a little. Perhaps a nod.
"Poor little pervert," she said.
She was rubbing her hips in to his arse now. The closeness was compelling, her
words as much a turn on for her as him. She nuzzled against him, pressing small
kisses on to the soft warm leather covering his face. Her hand worked its way up
from his chest, stroking his face and cupping his cheek.
"Don't cum," she said breathlessly. "Perverts don't cum until I tell them."
Her fingers closed on the two small breathing holes, cutting off his air. For a
moment there was calm, then the struggling started. It was just a toss of the
head first, but as his supply ran out it became a more frantic effort, a
struggle between the need for air and the inevitability of falling over.
"Fucking pervert, stay still," she hissed through clenched teeth. "You're mine.
If I want to suffocate you I fucking will."
She held him tightly, thrilled by the control she had over him. She listened to
the gagging noises from inside the mask. A few seconds more, then she stepped
back and spun him round, catching him on the turn with a hard, stinging slap
across the face. He was knocked off balance, and she caught him before he went
down.
"You even need me to help you stand, don't you, pervert?"
Red mist hit her. She picked up the riding crop that had been forgotten and set
about him with it. Something in her drove her on, making her hit his buttocks
with an intensity she did not know she had in her.
He tried to get free of her, hobbling forward in his chains. That just made her
laugh and she chased him around the room, hitting out when the fancy took her
and calling out instructions for him to turn here or go faster or even stop.
A small part of her mind sat in a corner of the room, watching a man in high
heels and lycra shuffling around while a woman covered in rubber and brandishing
a riding crop systematically beat him. It would have been a strange scene to
witness from afar, but from within Sophie found it enormous fun.
It came to an end when, exhausted, she collapsed on to the sofa. He carried on
shuffling until, to her amusement, he realised the sounds he could hear were her
removing her boots.
"Come here," she said.
He made his way across the room until he was close to the sofa.
"Kneel."
He did. She ran her hand across his masked head again, a little smile coming to
her face as he quivered under her touch.
"Would you like a treat?" she asked him.
He nodded.
"Of course you would."
She stood and walked to the far end of the room, where it was clear of furniture
and clutter. In a moment soft music was coming out of the computer's speakers.
"Turn to face me."
She waited while he carried out the instruction.
"I'm going to pose for you," she told him. "I've got my tight rubber suit on,
covering every inch of my beautiful body with latex. As I move you'll see how
sexy my body is. I bet you can even imagine it right now."
Sophie looked at him, kneeling in the middle of the floor. His erection was
obvious, his chest rising and falling as he took deep breaths.
With the music a little louder she stood with her back to him, pushing her
bottom out a little and swaying her hips from side to side. The music was
starting to infect her, helping her drift in to a land halfway between her
rubber fantasy and her dance class.
"Do you like my bottom?" she asked, running her hands over it. "It's so nice and
pert and round." She slapped herself twice. "Hmm, even I like to have my bottom
spanked sometimes."
She turned and let her hands slip up her body. They rested on her small breasts,
which she rubbed and squeezed.
"God, my nipples are so hard," she told him. "Just imagine what you could do to
them right now."
Her hands continued to explore her rubberised body. They drifted down her waist
and on to her thighs, then came round to dip between her legs.
"Shit, I'm soaking."
Her movements were becoming more bold as she threw in her own little dance steps
and moves. Someone had once told her dancing was very erotic, but she'd never
believed it. But now, as she danced for the sightless mix of leather and lycra
kneeling before her, she was becoming a convert. She felt free to enjoy the
smoothness of the rubber and the firmness of its grip on her skin. Arching her
back and kicking her legs made it stretch and grip her even more.
She was dancing, following routines that just came to her from her classes. As
she whirled and twirled around the room she kept coming back to the unmoving
pervert. Unable to see he could only imagine what she was doing, and that made
it all the more erotic for her. She wasn't just a fantasy figure, she was
embedded in his fantasies.
"Time for some fun," she said aloud.
Her foot flicked out and caught him in the groin. He bent down a little in
shock, but was still high enough for her to catch him across the cheek as she
spun round. Laughter filled the room and she cart wheeled behind him, landing
the flat of her foot firmly on one buttock. He pitched forward, landing on his
chained arms and rolling to one side so he ended up on his back with the wind
knocked out of him.
That was her signal to perform a last cartwheel, ending up with her bottom
hovering over his face, her arms supporting her weight and one foot pressed hard
in to his balls. She paused for a moment to catch her balance, then sunk down,
sitting with her full weight on his head and both her feet in his groin.
Her bottom seemed to fit the contours of his face perfectly. Her buttocks rested
over his eyes, her pussy sat almost on top of the end of his nose. With a little
rubbing she could feel pleasure mounting up in her sex as his nose pressed on
her zip, which pressed on her genitals.
As she rolled her hips up and down his nose her feet worked on his lycra
shrouded penis. She pushed hard on him, pressing her toes in to his hard shaft
and drawing them back along his length. Feeling him swell under her touch,
hearing his strained breathing, it was all exciting her. Sure. she'd played the
games before, but they were games. This was real. This was what she wanted.
She lifted herself and turned round. Her feet ended up on his face, where his
eye sockets would be, her bottom now crushing his erection. There was a moment's
regret as she realised she could have given him a hood with a zipped mouth and
get him to suck her rubber coated feet. But that would wait for another time.
Somehow she managed to balance herself on him. Somehow she managed to roll her
hips back and forth, pressing down on his hard erection without falling off.
Somehow she managed to sink a hand down in to her groin, rubbing her fingers
hard against her sensitive sex while her other hand pulled and squeezed an
oh-so-hard nipple. It was heaven, but there was something missing to make it
perfection.
Again she turned, this time lying down on him. Her head sunk next to his and she
nuzzled against him, feeling the warm, soft leather on her flushed skin. A
little adjustment and she was where she wanted to be, her bottom resting on his
chained hands.
"Squeeze my arse," she told him.
His hands move, grasping the firm flesh covered in rubber. It sent ripples of
delight up and down her spine, which she augmented by stroking her own body. She
didn't focus on anywhere in particular, just letting her hands slide up and down
her rubberised form. Such wonderful feelings took hold of her, making her want
more stimulation.
"Harder," she told him.
He was hurting her, but it was what she wanted. It made the feelings of pleasure
seem more real, more intense. Her hands were on a clear orbit now, one
constantly heading for her sex, the other revolving around her breasts. Panting
breaths passed her lips and her heart pounded in her ears.
"Pervert," she said in a rasping voice. "Fucking pervert. In his lycra suit and
his mask. Wishing he could fuck his wife."
Her eyes closed and she saw flashes of fantasy and memory. One instant him
before her, the next her lying on top of him masturbating. Her beating him. Her
dancing for him. Her being fucked by him. Him nestled between her legs,
worshipping her sex.
Her ears could hear someone moaning. It was a sound of pleasure, a sound of
rapture and she realised it was her own voice making the sound. It was getting
louder and louder, spurring her on as, for the first time she could remember,
her entire body joined in her ecstasy.
She was shouting at him, moaning and swearing, not caring what the neighbours
might think. He was a bastard, a wanker, a pervert. He needed beating, abusing,
anything else that flashed before the red haze in her eyes.
As the spasms started she bent over, pressing her tender breasts on to his
masked face. They started in the pit of her stomach, but spread so quickly
through her body that she was shaking before she managed to undo the zip on her
suit. The hands that had been working on her arse were guided in to her soaking
wet sex, forced to pleasure her as her own hands smothered her body with touch.
Suddenly the world went out of focus, red turning to bright white light. She
could feel something rushing through her veins, something that made her cry out,
something that made every muscle in her body scream with release.
And then the world went black.
