Shona's Surprising Slave - Chapter 21
Femdom romance in the CARGO 'verse, where the NHS installs permanent chastity devices!
Hal paused as he wiped the black marble-effect kitchen top. Was it only two weeks ago?
Miss Armstrong --- Mistress! --- had perched her bottom on this very spot, bathrobe open to reveal the freckled expanse of her pale skin and she'd had him kneel between her long legs and lap at her red-furred pussy.
Mistress!
She really was his mistress. His cock swelled against its eternal prison and he remembered.
Mistress's pubic curls had been soft and fragrant from her luxurious bath, but her outer lips had been dry.
A little probing with his tongue located a wellspring of salty juices trickling from within. Still using only his tongue, he spread those juices around her fleshy crevice making a slippery path all the way up to her swollen clitoris.
Then he licked.
Mistress had told him to be gentle, so he administered a tender flickering of tip on clitoris, while her savoury nectar dripped into his ready mouth and his permanently caged cock throbbed uselessly in time to her quickening breath.
Mistress came suddenly, loudly, then pushed him away.
He stared up at her full of love, proud of the new flush between her full breasts and the way her big green eyes were now wide and watery, as if in wonder.
Mistress slapped him across the face.
"No eye contact, slave."
He'd had to kneel there on the kitchen floor like the slave he was, his face smarting from the blow, his taste buds drowning in her musk, his cock pulsing and dripping in its forever cage, while she gave him his orders for the day.
In the fourteen long days since, there had been plenty of domestic orders, but no more pussy licking.
Mistress's home life had carried on just as he'd imagined it in the old days when he'd merely been her anonymous cleaner, except that he was now there to see it, and maybe make it happen more smoothly.
He had used to come into the kitchen on Monday morning to find sweaty sportswear piled on the floor by the washing machine. Now, she would return from exercise --- running, martial arts, or just the gym --- and stand in the kitchen to strip off perspiration soaked clothing lycra while he inhaled the scent from her clammy skin and shuddered with lust.
He had used to find the bath marred by tide lines and stray red curls around the plughole, and --- when he got home --- he'd masturbate over the mental image of what she must have looked like as she soaked. Now, she would lie there with her statuesque curves wreathed in bubbles, flesh pink and soft with the warmth, while he fetched her drinks or scrubbed her shoulders. Finally, she'd heave herself up to stand splendidly naked, the water running down her breasts and thighs and he'd hand her fresh towels to wrap up in.
Sometimes he had used to find shoes kicked off in the hall, a coat on the floor, a mess of burned cheese-on-toast in the kitchen sink. Now, on those evenings when she came back late from a restaurant or wine bar she'd rouse him out of his cell --- the box room by the front door --- and demand he take off her shoes, serve her a snack, before blundering off to bed to leave him still tidying the mess in the small hours.
More often, he had used to find the sofa cushions messed up, with snacks packets and dishes full of crumbs. Now, his mistress would relax in front of the TV --- she had a taste for both corporate thrillers and small town romances --- while he knelt with his back to the screen rubbing her feet as the hardness in his groin ebbed and flowed.
And --- the thing that had kept him awake at night jerking off --- he had used to find her under sheet bearing the stamp of the week's vibrator use - a cluster of little salt stains like battle honours. Sometimes he'd even have to discretely put away a forgotten sex toy. Now... well sometimes as he lay in his cell surrounded by her sports kit and winter boot collection, he'd hear a distant buzz and pray for a summons that so far had not come.
His red haired mistress must know that his caged groin was a knot of hopeless lust, but she didn't care. Nor did she feel any obligation to include him in her bedtime orgasms.
The only acknowledgement he got from her was when she gave him a demerit.
Mistress had discovered the HrLcker app's "helpful" Relationship Tracker function that let her give him a thumbs up --- which she never did --- or a thumbs down, which she called "demerits".
And the demerits were mounting up fast.
Because, even though he was wading through tides of lust as thick as treacle, he had to stay on top of the chores. Each evening, Mistress insisted that she return to a show home apartment with fresh bedding, no visible laundry, ironing done, every surface dusted, every window cleaned, every inch of floor vacuumed, the bathrooms gleaming like new.
He could just about manage that, except that she'd also thrust a stack of healthy cookbooks at him and demanded fresh meals every day: not just dinner, but also breakfast and some kind of packed lunch she could reheat at work. So he found himself shopping for ingredients for things like spinach breakfast waffles, Thai beef salad and low fat tiramisu, then preparing the actual meal against the clock sometimes with the help of a video tutorial. Once it was served up, there was still no rest. She had him play waiter while she ate --- literally standing quietly out of her field of view, ready top up a glass or serve a second helping. At the end, he'd be the rush to deal with the mess before she inspected the kitchen and gave him more demerits.
So Hal was horny, neglected, and bored and he'd have probably walked out by now, except thanks to the exclusivity lock, she controlled what was left of his sex life. Even if she released him, she could give him such a bad review that his days of hooking up with random horny women would be over.
"Fuck, are you not done yet, slave?"
Mistress was standing in the kitchen doorway, barefoot and in her lycra running gear; mid calf bottoms and a crop top that left her glistening midriff bare. Her face was flushed the way it was after her orgasms.
Her big green eyes narrowed.
Hal hastily averted his gaze.
Mistress took her phone out of its shoulder band and tapped the screen.
The HrLckr App clicked, and kept clicking.
"Three demerits for laziness," she said, "and a shit tonne more for eye contact. What kind of fucking slave are you?"
Hal found himself sinking to kneel on the kitchen floor. Fear gripped his heart, but it also made his pierced penis flex in its permanent cage.
Mistress moved to stand over him, bringing with her the sharp musk of fresh perspiration. "Well, I asked you a question, slave?"
Hal flushed. Was she actually role playing? "A lazy rude one, mistress?"
"Precisely," said Mistress, sounding like she meant it. "Go and set yourself up for a whipping like last time."
Hal blinked. Had he heard right? She'd spoken so casually.
His phone clicked again.
"Go on," she said.
Hal scrambled on all fours past the statuesque redhead's bare feet, then scurried to the bedroom wardrobe where she kept the leather bondage gear.
On the way back down the hall he passed the open door of the study bedroom where mistress was opening a package that had arrived earlier.
Breathing hard, Hal stripped off and then it was all so frighteningly easy: take the wicker basket chair off its chain... strap on ankle and wrist fetters... stand on the yoga block... clip the ankles together... stretch and clip the wrists to the ceiling chain... kick away the yoga block.
In no time at all, Hal was naked and stretched out from floor to ceiling like some Roman saint awaiting his martyrdom with his back to the balcony window and its very normal view out over the city's dockland offices and apartments.
Nothing happened.
Far away, a keyboard rattled. Mistress had got caught up in work.
Hal flexed, stood on his toes to ease the pressure of his arms.
More keyboard rattles, then the sound of a typing chair wheeled back.
Mistress's footfalls approached down the hall.
Hal tensed and wondered frantically if each demerit translated to a blow from the riding crop. He was on about thirty. That couldn't be too bad, could it? His first time had been far worse... his first time that had left him permanently chaste.
His groin knotted up and he squirmed whether from fear or hopeless frustration he could no longer tell.
Still in her running gear, Mistress padded into the room carrying the package --- a long cardboard box.
Her phone went. "Ruth!"
The caller sounded Australian, but Hal couldn't make out her words.
"That's great news," said Mistress. She tipped the package one handed. A selection of whips and canes emptied onto the sofa. "Yes, lets..."
Hal stared at the collection of punishment instruments and tensed against his bonds. Some of them looked painfully thin and whippy, others scarily thick and rod like. He shuddered and found he couldn't control his breathing. This was actually going to be far, far worse than when she used the riding whip.
"Hang on," said Mistress. She glanced at Hal.
Shuddering with fear now, Hal somehow managed to averted his eyes.
"Slave, can you make quiche?"
Hal nodded. "Y... yes, m... mistress."
"Oh My God!" The Australian voice exploded with mirth. Hal caught the word "Slave?" and felt himself blush.
"Which god?" said Mistress. "I think we're doing some scary bitch goddess here --- slave, which goddess are we doing."
"Athena," he blurted. It fitted, except for the sweating. Red haired virgin Goddess of Wisdom and War.
So why doesn't everybody come here for Sunday lunch?
"Athena, apparently. I'll have to google. So, yes.... Tomorrow, Sunday. Hey! The flat is tidy.... Don't sound so fucking surprised! I have a slave for that... No, really."
The call ended.
Mistress stared at her phone for a moment. "Right. That's thirty five demerits. We'll call it forty."
Hal whimpered.
"Fifty, then," said Mistress. She picked up what was basically a long rod with a handle and --- still bare foot --- padded around to stand behind him. "If you make too much racket, I'll restart the count. One!"
There was a swish.
Hall flinched.
Then it was as if a knife had sliced his buttocks open. The pain sheeted through him, shredding the hardness out of his captive penis. For a moment, Hal couldn't breathe.
"Two!"
Another swish.
There was nowhere to flinch to.
Again, the pain sheeted his buttocks. This time he managed to inhale.
"Three!"
The rod struck and Hal screamed.
Silence fell.
Then he realised what he'd done. "No.. No... no... please mistress..."
Mistress sighed. "OK, we'll start again."
The pain tore through him, but Hal clamped his jaw and managed to emit only a muffled screech.
"Two..." The blow landed a bit higher.
He bucked in his chains, raising his feet off the floor and an agonised mewp escaped his lips.
Now she struck the tender flesh of the very top of his buttocks and the impact carried deep into his muscles like a red hot knife. "Three..."
He planted his feet tried to focus on his breathing.
"Four..."
That landed lower now, criss-crossing the first strokes.
There was no escape. The pain violated his mind, making it impossible to think. He knew only that if he pleaded, she'd only start again.
The rod crept lower still, searing trenches of pain into his buttocks and then his tender thighs until he was screaming in his head and his world was just a series of white hot explosions.
"Ten."
Mistress strolled back to the sofa.
Hal's buttocks throbbed sharply as if she hadn't stopped. The cage prickle around his rigid cock as if it were a barbed wire tourniquet. Something hot and wet trickled down the back of his thighs.
Mistress glanced at the rod then tossed it on the floor. "Make sure you clean the blood off that, slave."
The tone she used was so normal, so devoid of any emotion, that Hal suddenly felt as if he were a real slave with nothing to hope for but a bleak future of service and suffering. He started to weep.
Mistress regarded him. "That's better." She picked up a long perspex cane. "I wonder what this does."
Hal blinked away the tears and tracked her as she stalked around to stand behind him. Some women were catlike. Mistress, however, was more like a lioness: muscle and mass in motion.
His groin tightened as she moved out of sight.
"Eleven..." The rod hissed, stung his shoulders.
It was like having so many needles pushed through his bones into his lungs. "Jesus!"
Mistress sighed. "I've got all morning to do this. One..."
Horror coiled through Hal, forcing a joyless spasm out of his caged penis.
Mistress counted while she methodically flayed his shoulders, his ribs, his tender flanks, then his buttocks and thighs. At thirty, he could feel the blood trickling own his back while the tears ran down his cheeks.
Mistress tossed the cane on the floor next to the bloodied rod. Next she snatched up a knotted scourge that struck his tenderised skin like a hailstorm.
"Fifty!"
And the pain stopped.
Mistress unclipped his wrists. "Sort yourself out."
Hal crumpled to the floor and lay there sobbing while the aftershock coruscated up and down the entire rear surface of his body like St Elmo's Fire.
Her bare feet appeared next to his face. "On your knees, slave, pay attention."
Straining, the pain rippling over his welted skin, he managed to unclip his ankles and kneel up. The pressure of his heels on his ruined buttocks felt like red hot irons. He shuddered and squirmed, and prayed silently that she wouldn't notice his fidgeting.
"Better," said Mistress. "Now, I'm eating out for lunch, but for dinner I want the the teriyaki salmon with rocket salad and quinoa... Oh, and chocolate mousse for desert."
"Yes, mistress."
"Now tidy up this mess and get dressed, then bring me a cappuccino in the bedroom."
Mistress turned and padded away to the kitchen to strip off her running gear.
She was sweaty and naked as she passed back through the lounge, and equally naked but cleaner and towelling herself dry when he dazedly brought her drink to the bedroom.
The sight buffeted him so that he was trapped between a rising tide of lust that tightened his chastity cage, and the throbbing aftershock of the whipping that caused his bloody welts to stick to his T-shirt and his buttocks and thighs to hurt anew as he walked.
There was, he realised, nothing he could do about either.
He was now truly her slave.
Mistress seemed to have come to the same understanding. That night, she summoned him to crawl up under the covers and lick her to orgasm before dismissing him to his cell.
After, he slumbered on his front, face drenched in her musk and writhing in the embrace of the throb of his wounds, the itch of the forming scabs, and the insistent pulse of his cage-neutered groin.
The next morning, as he served her breakfast in bed he knew a moment of perfect contentment.
He was well aware that this was insane, and nothing he could sustain. Even so, he was going to make the most of these next couple of months and be the best slave his she could imagine.
He would start by serving the perfect lunch for her and her friends.
His imagination rewarded him with a vision of him serving naked and maybe some sexy games happening... His penis pulsed wetly inside its cage.
Who knew? Anything was possible for a chaste.
small typing error "face drenched hin her musk"
I should have more to say...yet I don't. I'm not shocked. This is precisely the kind of situation he should have known he was in for when he didn't leave the party and get back to his paying job, AND why I've wanted to slap them both for so long lol.
I get wanting to be flogged and whipped. It is the surest way to get me to subspace, but as most in the lifestyle know drawing blood and leaving scars is a line. You want to stop before you cross it, not push further. It's honestly kind of heart breaking to know that Hal signed himself up for this.
Well written as always!
(P.S. love the call back to your earlier writing with the demerits, what was that planet New Hymen? been a while since I've read that one.)