Man Worships Mistress’ Cruelty
She has taken him. He cannot feel who he is any longer, only her presence within him.
Parties bored him. But you had to mix to meet. He looked at a Domme. She was new. Her proud posture excited him. More than her lovely face.
Looking at her, he discovered the truth of female superiority. She noticed him. Saw him shiver. His eyes widen, relax. He had slouched. Now he stood straight. Unashamedly, he stared at her in open reverence.
It was not submission tainted with lust. Thinking her unattainable, a tear fell as he turned to leave.
With sudden swift grace, she went forward. Grasped his hand.
Expecting a rebuke, he opened his lips to apologize. Placing a forefinger across his lips, she silenced him.
When she tugged his hand forward, he wondered why but not where. Why would she care that he existed?
She led him to her car.
“Do not speak.” Speechless, obedience was easy.
“This is your first test. You must have faith in me.”
A blindfold from the glove compartment blocked his sight. Blindness scared him. His long-denied need to serve a woman overcame his fear. Feeling her fingers run through his hair, he relaxed.
The car stopped. Looping something around his neck, she led him. Keys jangled, door creaked open, he went up a step. As they walked, he could tell she was careful to prevent him from bumping into furniture.
They went down steps.
Blindfold removed, he saw they were in a basement. He stood in a colorful, well-lit home dungeon. One corner had a spanking bench. The opposite, a triangle of carpet and armchair.
There were a couple of cages, a bondage cross. Glossy leather, Lucite and metal implements gleamed on a wall of pain toys.
She sat in the armchair. Pulling his leash down until he knelt before her.
“You may lick my boots, boy.”
Thrilled, he bent forward.
She grabbed an ear, yanked.
“Aren’t you forgetting something, boy?”
His cheeks reddened.
“My apologies, Mistress. Thank you for granting me the favor of cleaning your boots with my tongue.”
She gestured him down.
Lost in worshipful joy, he groveled until she grabbed his hair.
Sitting up, he thanked her again.
“What do you want, boy?”
“Whatever Mistress wants.”
“Are you sure? I am rough with playthings.”
“I swear, I only want to please you, Mistress.”
“It’s never that simple, boy.”
She caressed his cheeks. Her touch overwhelmed him.
“You aren’t realistic. But you aren’t demanding. I can’t stand needy playthings.”
Without warning she slapped his cheeks. He flinched and yelped.
“I see you are a masochist. Good, I only like men who gladly suffer for my pleasure.”
“Please, Mistress, let me be your pain toy.”
She grinned. This was nothing new. She had hope this young man might mean his words.
“Do you want me to hurt you, boy? To make you cry? To beg for mercy? To ache for days?”
“Yes, Mistress. Please, Mistress.”
She stood, walked to a wall. Selected gag and shackles.
She made him weep often that night. But never beg. The tight gag prevented only moans.
He awoke in a cage the next morning.
He stared at the pink stripes on his legs and arms. Just touching a nipple brought agony. Pains could not compete with the afterglow.
He was happy, delighted to be alive. The previous night’s pain left him longing for more.
The cage door opened. She had not locked him in.
He started to sit in the armchair. Thought about it. Went back in the cage. Shut the door.