by Alex
Like most dominatrixes, she required her wretched admirers to avoid all physical contact with her. Maybe a brief kiss on the cheek as they left. Mostly she required their satisfaction to be through self-relief with one’s own hand or vibrator after the cruel stuff had finished. Or sometimes while it was still continuing!
She would watch, encourage. Switch a little with her cane on my shoulders my thighs and my balls as I worked on my stiff offering. She seemed infinitely distant. Unreachable. She seemed enclosed in her own bubble of temptation and excitement. She was quite stunningly beautiful in a statuesque and commanding way. The word ‘impressive’ doesn’t quite cover it as she gave off a physical, sexual urgency which infected all men (I imagine) who came within range.
I had been under her spell for some time. She really understood the obligatory suffering and frustrations I seemed to crave for so often. So, imagine my astonishment when on one occasion she told me as I knelt before her, that her latex catsuit needed freshening up, and she had got some special oil to make it extra shiny. She told me that I would enjoy rubbing the oil into the latex – as she was wearing it. I was so shocked and befuddled by the prospect of stroking and caressing her all over, that my mind went wild, and I don’t think I completely got the ravishingly extreme experience I was expected to get from feeling and stroking every square millimetre of a latex covered goddess. I remember especially, having started the stroking with oily hands at the bottom of her legs, I gradually moved up to her thighs and then her crotch. I was completely confused as my desire overwhelmed me, wishing to find her place of pleasure and finger-massage her there. But at the same time, I was overwhelmed too by the sense that it would be far too intrusive into her sublimely private body. I had no idea what to do and in fact just moved on to concentrate on her beautiful breasts.
Now, what she didn’t know is that after the rest of the session of excited suffering, I went home and had a fantasy that I could capture in my mind without it hazing over with confusion and conflict. My fantasy went like this.
I did not hesitate at the crotch but knew which route to take, and with great tenderness towards my idol, I pushed my finger between her thighs and found the gap left in the catsuit, so I could feel her two labia. And importantly her slit in which I would find her small bulb to excite. She did not protest as my fantasy was all on my side, and I could proceed with my intention to become someone who could give her satisfaction. She as someone who could only be of extremely Goddess-like superiority. I could feel her body tense up as I worked, so gently, on her. Eventually she took my hand from her Place and drew me over to her whipping bench. She lay at one end and required me to lie at the other end so that my head would come between her open thighs to continue the pleasure that I, a grovelling pig, was beginning to give her.
She had in the process of this transition picked up her cane and as I started on her with my tongue she stung me on the back with the cane. Slowly at first, but as her excitement increased, the strokes of the cane became stronger. It stung from my left shoulder to my buttocks and it went on with a rhythm that increased. It was pain, and it was the usual thrill. But it was also the unusual thrill that I was suddenly a thrill. The working on her was quite quick and as she began her orgasm she gave two of the hardest strokes of the cane I have ever had (I believed), and as she climaxed she threw the cane onto the thick-piled oriental carpet on the floor and gave a sublime gasp from her depths. And as the climax relaxed she called to me “Keep going, boy; keep it going.” So, I carried on thrilled that my mistress could get such satisfaction from me. And even wanted more. So, I continued and in a shortish period of time as I licked and licked, she began a new climax. Her orgasm perhaps was even more extreme this time. She was a satisfied woman. And as I began to lessen and withdraw, “Keep on, you pig. I did not tell you that you could stop. Keep giving it to me.” So, of course I did. Her body was eager, and I could feel the persisting tension and she writhed a bit, pushing towards my mouth and tongue. I was ecstatic. Ecstasy. She wanted me. Now it took a longer time. My neck was getting sore and aching with the unaccustomed work I was doing. And so was my jaw, as the tongue did its fantastic work. Her final orgasm was magnificent and the convulsions shook us both on the bench. It was hard to keep my tongue in place, but I did well enough to ensure she was pleasured to the end of her climax.
She lay back briefly as if emptied. And then sat up. I had not dared to move. “Thank you,” she said. She thanked me! I think she was dazed by the strength of her own needs and its satisfaction. She was rapidly recovering. “OK, pig, get off me.” I stood down on the floor and she swung her legs over the side of the bench. Go and stand in that corner. Facing into the corner and stand there like the filthy shit you are, until I tell you to do something else. She then gracefully left the room. Shit though I was, I had been a successful shit. Perhaps my success is what upset her, as she was accustomed to making us subjects feel such failures. Indeed, it was our true fate.
After half-an-hour she returned to me – obediently in the corner still. She came up behind, and in a soft voice, said, “I suppose you are pleased with yourself.” She had put her latex-clad body against my back, sore in places. And her arms around my tummy. “So am I,” she said, meaning pleased with me! “Never say I do not give credit where it is due. Though I prefer to give punishment where it is due. As you know,” she added with some implied sense of meaning. “You’ve had your punishment, now pleasure yourself while I hold you like this.” I obeyed of course with my hand, and very quickly my cum spilt down the corner of her wall. It was difficult to keep standing upright as my climax came. But she helped to hold me with her arms and her body and the slippery latex.
When I had finished, she turned me around and away from the wall. She knew I must have spoiled her wall, and she looked at it. “And get that cleared up, pig.” And she told me she would fetch a cloth. She came back straightaway with a cloth and also a stiff scrubbing brush. To me she gave the cloth, and as I tried to wipe the wall clean with a dry cloth (not easy), she scrubbed my sore back with the brush, quite vigorously and harshly. And after a short while, she said, “We’re done. And I mean it. We are done. Do not come here again. Do not come, do not contact me. Do not.” She was looking at me, and I thought there might have been a tear in her eyes. I could not tell if she was now frightened of me, or ashamed of herself. I was no longer a grovelling piece of nothingness. And that was a pain for her to suffer, a cane-stroke on her pleasure-spot, perhaps! In silence I dressed and left. Perhaps never to see her again. Or perhaps I would contact her and she would relent – I could not let her go, could I?
…..ooooo00O00ooooo…..
Well, that was my fantasy. Of course I was not prohibited as I had liked to imagine. In fact, quite the reverse. I discussed with a nervous side of myself if I should send her the fantasy I have just written. Here is what I imagined might have happened if I had sent it to her.
I watched the inbox daily after I sent it. And she kept me waiting. Of course. The wait was like the stroke of a cane every time I found she had not replied with an email. Or would she never be. Had she been so offended by my fantasy of her as vulnerable, that she would never relent. It was an offensive fantasy. It depicted her as susceptible to my charms. How could she be, and yet that invitation to touch and stroke and massage her with oil, Oh God….
Eventually, when I had given up, it came. I will quote what it said.
So, your little mind has fantasies about me. I am not surprised by that! But they are such predictable little fantasies from such a little mind. My fantasies are a little more imaginative. I have had a gadget specially made by another of you grovelling wretches as you call yourselves. When your fingers went inside me they discovered the gadget, which was set, like a mousetrap, to snap shut on your finger. Certain unkind spikes drove into the skin and flesh of the finger. And being inside me, you could not find the way to release the trap. You asked me to help you, but of course you got yourself into the trap, so you had to get yourself out. I told you that you are now attached to me. You were not allowed to pull the whole finger plus trap out as it would hurt your Goddess – definitely not a good idea. The only help I could give you was a pair of large wire cutters which you could use to cut through your finger and release yourself from my trap. You look at me as if I am crazy. But I am not – whoever has heard of a crazy Goddess. I tell you that you can, instead, chew through your finger with your teeth if you like.
She said she would leave me with that fantasy so far. And I could finish it for her. I did.
Of course, she was being ridiculous. Wasn’t she? She told me I had not got the guts. What a limping wimp, she called me. The tip of her cane touched my penis. “You’re limping there,” she said scornfully. “So, we have another great failure on our hands.” And she began with her own fingers to find the way to remover the trap. It had some inflated rubber ring so that it could not be pulled out. But she understood the mechanism for deflating it. I eased the whole thing – finger and trap – out of her. You filthy, dribbling lump of crap she said with some degree of rage. And she clicked the mechanism and drew the nasty little spikes out of my finger. “So, you have got away with it. This time. How could you think you could violate your goddess! And get away with it.”
“Apologies to you, Mistress, my Goddess.”
“Apologies! Do you think that is all.”
“No Mistress. I need your chastisement.”
“You do. Indeed you do. Go into the toilet and get that finger washed. I don’t want bloodstains all over the place.” I got up to go to the toilet, “And while you’re there clean the toilet. With your tongue!” I hesitated then. I wondered what she meant. “It is full of diarrhoea.” I have to admit I was completely dismayed. “So, are you refusing to obey my commands?”
“No, your command is my wish, as you have taught me.”
“Oh, go on then, you will only come back stinking like shit. Well stinking more than you already do.” She took me into the bathroom and found some sticking plaster for me to dress the oozing wounds. I noticed there was no shit in the lavatory pan. “Now then,” she sat in her elegant throne-like chair, “What is it worth, to have released you from your sinful abuse of me.”
“I need to be punished, my Goddess.”
“You do indeed. What are you suggesting?
Your cane on my buttocks, my Goddess.”
Is that all your finger is worth,” she scoffed.
I was again puzzled. “Do you mean money, my Goddess?” She nodded peremptorily. “I’ve saved you finger, haven’t I?” And I wondered what she was think I should offer. The first amount that came into my head was five hundred pounds.
She stared at me. “Is that all it is worth. Five thousand I should think more likely. It is your index finger. But then you’re a pile of rubbish, worth next to nothing.” And she turned away.
I wondered about £5000. I had taken a liberty. I had to obey her demands.
“Get your cheap body on the bench.” And she fastened my writs and legs with the cuffs, so my bottom was exposed and asking for it. “I have my new cane, a heavy one. What do I usually give you?” She always knew, but I told her it was two dozen. “It is not much is it.”
“Perhaps you should make it three dozen, my goddess.”
“Is that all? Let me see, you pay me two hundred for two dozen euros, so five thousand would be… let me work it out. About four hundred cane strokes, I should say. Isn’t it worth that to keep the finger I saved for you?” I said nothing. There was nothing I could say or do. What she was proposing seemed impossible. To her too, perhaps — “I don’t think I have had anyone take four hundred from me. Four hundred of the heavy cane. Mostly they are unconscious by about seventy or a hundred,” she said airily. “Well, I am sure you are not up to it, are you. A limping cock, like you. Let’s make it four dozen then. Then I can send you home with blood from your finger and blood from your backside. Explain that to whoever you’ve got back there at home.”
Thank God there was no-one back there who would want an explanation. So she was proposing to double my punishment. In a way it seemed a bargain in her terms. And so, I felt I was getting away with something. At the same time, I didn’t know if I could take it. It would be going on forever. But I said nothing in my confusion.
She got started and as always I could not hold back the gasp at that first one. It was always a surprise. No pain of that intensity could be actually remembered. So, every time it was something new. I cried out after the first half-dozen or so. I don’t usually. But it was just that it was so hopeless to know that there were so many coming. “You worthless shit, “she said as I cried out. “We are really going to beat that shit out of you. You will go home purified by your Goddess. Worthless but purified. I will definitely see you get it really hard.” I was whimpering as the next half-dozen came. And the next. I was not half-way there yet. I didn’t actually know where I was…
At some point it came to an end.
“You’ve got a bit of blood oozing there. I am good at caning. Some say the best ever. I can aim well, and I train up the muscles of my arm, specially. They are as strong as a man’s. You have had the benefit of the best caning Mistress available. So, value me.”
…..ooooo00O00ooooo…..
That was what I imagined I could expect from her bewitching mind. So perhaps I did not need to send her my fantasy. In fact, I wanted to. So, with doubts all the way to the postbox, I did eventually post it – it meant my fantasy, and my fantasy of her reply. The lot. She replied, by email:
Thank you for your trivial story about me. I am not in the least flattered. A Goddess does not deserve such a snivelling incompetent. I told you, in your story, never to come here again, never see my beauty. Now I tell you in reality I will not see you, even if you crawl on your belly. Even if you beg with a five thousand tribute. I would simply take it and give to charity – and then send you away, unseen. Got it, you toilet-licking pig. I’ll send you to the slaughter-house for bacon. And I would never eat bacon again, in case it was a bit of you. I think I’ll write you a story now, just so you know what a limp piece of trash you have between your legs.
So she wrote a story – in my inbox the next day. It started with a small drawing of a pig. And she went onto tell me I had won the first prize at her Domming Olympics. Gold medal, drenched in menstruation. She told me how I had won it. She had collected all the filthy cocks that came to her for their discipline. They were legion, because she was so beautiful and so severe. ‘They’ included me, and she marched us all, naked in a queue. One cold winter’s night out to her swimming pool in the garden, empty now till the summer sunshine made it tempting again. But her temptation now was different. Every single one of us should now collect a large mug and fill it with water to drink, then once emptied the mug is to be refilled, and drunk again. Going on and on until we had one by one filled our bladders and had to pee. But no stopping, we had to drink more. With our stretched bladders we then pee-ed into the empty pool, gradually slowly, as the night progressed and the cold settled on us, the swimming pool gradually filled, slowly, slowly. By morning we had made progress and then we continued for the Goddess’s sake. And eventually by around midday the pool was stinking full, or full enough. She our Goddess, wrapped in her warm furs, then delivered the contents of a bucket into the pool and declared her games open. We peered at what she had added to our stink pool. Of course, no prize for the right answer. It was, probably a weeks’ accumulation of her faeces. Lumps slowly drifted away in all directions.
In the heats we swam four lengths of the pool. Not so far. But then climbed out and stood while the rest swam. More heats, then semi-finals of six lengths and eventually as the heatless sun settled over the horizon, the finals (twelve lengths). I won. I won. I won the gold. But with the medal I was to perform a final tribute to our Goddess. I must return to the pool, now dark and near freezing to swim around the pool collecting the bits and pieces of her faeces. In my mouth. And deposit them on the side of the pool. The others, the losers, would eat them, swallowing them down as her golden offerings from our Goddess on high.
As I climbed out of the pool she demanded I kneel at her feet. And one by one, the others come to lick the urine from my body and my hair, and from all the shivering crevices of my skin.
…..ooooo00O00ooooo…..
TO BE CONTINUED
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