Mistress’ Arbitrary Cruelties & Punishhments
Delivering the final blow of the man’s morning beating, Mistress grabbed his chin. She lifted his face. Her tongue licked his damp eyes. Delicious tears, flavored with male agony.
She smiled. She never disguises enjoyment of masculine suffering. Looking up, the man was oblivious to her whiskey-colored hair and fit body. Attributes that trapped him. Made him beg for slavery. His eyes fix on her lips. Their cruel curl. As always, he shivers.
He crawled to the kitchen.
Mistress Freis sipped her first cup of coffee. She frowned. Then sloshed the hot coffee over the man’s body.
As he made a new pot, he ached, anticipating future punishment. He doubted the coffee was weak. Arbitrary abuse and random torment were integral to his slavery.
He is inconsequential. That is his nickname. Mistress never uses the words on his birth certificate.
He brought a fresh cup. Mistress sipped without remark.
Commendations and approval were not for men. Only accusations and verbal violence.
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 gave her a series of orgasms. He cannot remember his last orgasm. Mistress Freis says sex makes men stupid. Men are already stupid enough.
Once weekly she unlocked his genitals. Once weekly she milked him. Ruined orgasms, the prostate gland’s gift to cruel women.
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 liked to see him physically helpless, unable to leave.
Hours passed. Whether he was bored, anxious or miserable, Mistress Freis enjoyed wasting his time. 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. Only a warm-up.
Next came a rattan cane. She focused on his back.
The tawse gouged his buttocks and thighs. Thick red slices would ache for days.
Mistress Freis gleamed with sweat. The swift intake and expulsion of air were as much arousal as exertion. His cut flesh made her hungrier for his anguish.
She paused, reached between his thighs. A fat spiked dildo stretched his anus.
She spread tight miniature clothespins across his back.
With her whip, she tried to knock the clothespins off. Often, they moved without leaving. Tugs hurt more than the whip’s impact.
It was a slow, agonizing process. She gagged him. His shrieks made her ears ache.
The last clothespin tore free.
He could barely moan. Mistress Freis emptied his tear ducts.
She had gorged on his agony. Momentarily she was replete.
Unhitching him, she left for bed. The morning’s afterglow would make her again hungry to hurt him again.
She wondered: was she an addict? Hurting men seemed a harmless compulsion. Her appetite for men’s tears will never fade.