Delivering the final blow of the young man’s morning beating, Mistress grabbed his chin. She lifted his face. Her tongue swept up his tear’s moisture.
She smiled. She never disguised enjoyment of his pain. Looking up, the man was oblivious to her sunshine hair and slim body. Attractions that led to his present life.
Her smile made him shiver. She was happiest when most cruel.
He crawled to the kitchen.
Mistress Gaiman sipped her first cup of coffee. She frowned. Then sloshed the hot coffee over the man’s body.
He brewed a fresh pot. Wondered what extra punishment she would inflict. He doubted the coffee was weak. Arbitrary abuse and random torment filled his days.
He is inconsequential. That is his nickname. Mistress never uses his legal name.
He brought a fresh cup. Mistress sipped without remark.
Commendations and approval were not for men. Only commands and curses.
Mistress did not work today. She took her second cup to her home office.
Slave crawled after her. He knelt at the door.
Mistress snapped her fingers.
His tongue, intimate with her sensitivities, made her moan with delight. Only she has orgasms. Mostly with other women. Cunnilingus is the sold pleasure of his slavery.
Mistress shoved him away.
A flawless housekeeper, only minor tidying was necessary.
He prepared and served Mistress’ midday meal.
This command sent him to the basement playroom, a well-equipped home dungeon. He fit his wrists into the self-locking cuffs. Her word alone would hold him in place. She enjoyed making him physically helpless.
He waited. Mistress Gaiman wanted his fear to heighten. Individual minutes became oppressive. Each a reminder that he was indeed inconsequential. Trivial irritations magnified. A minor itch. Was a bug crawling down his back?
Mistress arrived. She held a riding crop. Fifty swats. That was for inadequate coffee. And a warm-up.
Next came a rattan cane. She focused on his back.
The tawse gouged his buttocks and thighs. Thick red slices that would ache for days.
Mistress Gaiman gleamed with sweat. The swift intake and expulsion of air were as much arousal as exertion. He could not see but was sure of her self-pleasuring. His anguish, her lust were indivisible.
She spread tight miniature clothespins across his back, buttocks, thighs and arms.
With her whip, she tried to knock the clothespins off. They wobbled, rarely coming loose. Each tug hurt, more than the whip.
Slowly they ripped free. Raw, pinched, torn skin bled.
Finally, the last clothespin fell to the floor.
It was late afternoon on the cusp of early evening. She would shower and nap. Have a snack.
Then return to the basement and play with her slave until dawn.
Originally posted 2017-05-28 22:35:22.