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  Condemned to the dark depths of the prison and the care of her cruel trainer, Lydia finds out the truth behind the country that has enslaved her. At its heart is a cartel of sadistic rulers who love nothing more than to spend their ample wealth and time training inmates like Lydia as bondage and sex slaves.

  Transferred to a secret mansion, Lydia is forced through numerous ordeals of extreme rubber containment, fiendish technological torment, punishment and submissive servitude to the guests of the palace, and slowly, she begins to succumb to the seductive lure of enjoying her position as the personal trained pet of the mysterious president.

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  Bondage Palace

  Copyright © 2014 Bruce Mclachlan

  ISBN: 978-1-77111-888-0

  Cover art by Angela Waters

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by eXtasy Books

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  Bondage Palace

  By

  Bruce Mclachlan

  Chapter One

  The click of heels returned, and again, she listened to her fellow captive being tortured. The muted cries of the other captive suggested the gag and helmet were not Lydia’s alone to endure.

  Several times, Lydia had to fend off the desire to be under the lash. She was revolted to find herself dreamily soaking up the cruel signal of the weapon and the creak of shackles under straining limbs. The vision of her enslaver was constantly in the forefront of her mind, along with a driving lecherous need. Her insidious tutor had taught her a whole new catalogue of erotic fantasies to dwell upon, and they were all the more difficult to deny because of the assured prospect of their implementation.

  The envy Lydia felt passed as the other prisoner was returned to the subterranean cell after long hours of exclusive attention. To her joy, the locks of her pit opened and her chain towed her out. The pull lifted her arms and strained them heartlessly.

  “Come on, slave, out you go, it’s time for some more lessons in obedience,” said the woman with bland tones.

  The jaws of the steel helm yawned and removed their burden from her head, letting her arms finally move back down. The limbs pounded with a galloping throb from the return of circulation and normality, making Lydia gurgle and whimper.

  The straps of the gag parted, and as the bulb deflated with a hiss, her jaws found great delight in being able to close. She licked her parched lips and stretched her tongue. The corners of the hood were grabbed and the sheath of rubber peeled off, the latex sticking to the sheen of moisture she had generated in her prison.

  The groaning sigh of the stretching material had Lydia wilting in awe, the sound glorious to her trained ears. The departure of the garment had allowed her to finally look up with light-starved eyes from her kneeling position and close her tenderized mouth. An almost angel-like haze surrounded the mistress and the dazzling quality of the light, which illuminated the towering latex ruler, enforced the divine quality of this dominant sadist. Lydia had stared solely into a featureless void for so long that this initial vision was a spellbinding affair, no less so than for her mistress’ salacious apparel.

  Lydia lifted her gaze across patent-leather thigh-high boots. The gloss material clung to her legs, following the weaving contours. Lydia’s eyes moved next to the fishnet stockings stretched upon firm thighs and then slipped beneath the hem of a low-cut latex dress. The sight of the mistress’ cleavage, held by this now-intoxicating fabric, had the prisoner wilting with desire. The stern visage glared down at her and made her feel even more insignificant and humble. In one latex-gloved hand, she held a crop while in the other a bowl of porridge. It was an offering that caused Lydia’s stomach to instantly growl.

  “Lick my legs, and you may eat, slave,” commanded the mistress, adding further incentive to comply with her wishes.

  Desperate for both meals, Lydia leant down and began to run her tongue across the smooth panel of the pointed toes. To her astonishment and confusion, she was being aroused by this act of derogation, and while she lapped at the boots and lingered upon the heel, groveling before the mistress with her hands still tied behind her back, she found unexpected pleasure in her toil. She had been forced to do this for the guards in the prison above and had loathed every second. There had been a hint of pleasure but nothing as powerful and distinct as this. She enjoyed it, she relished being low before this glorious female; she wallowed like a beast at her mistress’ heels and fawned over them.

  “That will do, slave. You’ve earned your meal,” the woman said. Satisfied with Lydia’s performance, she set down the bowl and watched as her captive gulped down the thick, cold sludge. It only took moments for her to fully devour the food and it immediately restored her senses. It was a recuperation that left her with a bubbling nausea from the base spectacle she had made of herself, and from the eerie satisfaction she had found in her lowly worship.

  Once she had licked the bowl clean, Lydia was dismayed to see the gag hanging in the mistress’ grip. This time, though, when the implement was opened and pushed between her lips she merely opened her mouth and accepted the baleful tool without resistance or complaint. There was no fight because Lydia was using the application as a wondrous chance to peer closely at her mistress and gaze into her hovering cleavage.

  “Now that we’ve filled this hungry little mouth, we’ll ensure it stays that way,” commented the woman.

  The mistress locked the gag back onto Lydia’s face, inflated it to the customary aching point and took rein on the shackles holding her hands behind her back.

  “Come this way, slave,” she ordered, drawing Lydia up by the restraints, taking the prisoner toward the wall and beneath two dangling hooks in the ceiling. These were two heavy loops spaced well apart. Lydia squeezed her jaws against the gag, the balloon forcing them against the straps, the corners already starting to throb once more.

  “I’ve got wonderfully stern bondage for you to try, and you’ll like it, won’t you, slave? Because it’ll please me to see you suffer?” she asked, making Lydia nod dramatically.

  “Good slave,” she replied and patted Lydia’s gag, her face stretched into a muted freeze-frame wail by the implement.

  The dominatrix removed a full set of restraints. The thick leather cuffs were methodically locked to her ankles and to her elbows. The jolly titter from the buckles set butterflies free in Lydia’s stomach.

  Taking hold of her already bound wrists, the joined cuffs were turned and raised back up her spine before being connected to the overhead ring on the left via a generous quantity of rope. A thin length of cord was applied to the free manacles above her elbows. The leather thong was then flipped across her chest, bisecting both breasts by the nipples and connecting to the opposite side, leaving the lengths of cord bisecting across the front of her torso and stretching from cuff to cu
ff.

  Lydia’s breathing quickened with concern as a long, woven length of rope was tied to her joined ankles and threaded through the other ring in the roof. Left facing the ring on the right, Lydia watched with appalled dread as the mistress took the opposite end of the rope and wound the slack about her latex-coated palms. The radiant woman looked to Lydia with dark glee and a smile broke upon the corners of her mouth as she started to back up, hauling Lydia’s feet from the floor.

  “Time to leave the ground, slave,” she confirmed.

  Lydia fell onto her restraints in a supine pose, her weight wrenching her limbs up her spine. The sudden extreme pull dragged out her elbows and made the cord, which was spread tight between them, drill into her breasts. Her flesh was garroted by her own suspended contortion.

  Shrieking into her gag, throwing her head wildly to and fro, her body shuddering, Lydia was pulled up until she was slung between the two rings and the rope was fastened off at her feet. It turned her into an organic hammock. The keen pulse in her joints from this venomous suspension filled her ligaments with racking pains. She tried to alleviate her suffering, but there was no escape. She could only hang face up, stretched between the two anchors, her body alive with fiery pangs, every breath making the cord at her chest tighten.

  “Hmm, such a comfy and inviting seat. Although I doubt the comfort I shall gain from my slave will be shared by her,” she mocked, and Lydia’s eyes bulged in alarm as the mistress swung a leg up amidst the murmur of latex and sat across Lydia’s stomach. Lydia’s gaze screwed up with her croaking wail when the weighty form settled across her body. The load felt as if it would rip Lydia’s limbs from their sockets or, at the very least, dislocate them.

  Casting her head back and yowling, she wriggled as the mistress settled into a gratifying position. Her body was aloft on her imprisoned servant, her rubber skirt slid elegantly against Lydia’s skin.

  “That’s much better. Isn’t it, slave?” she questioned. The mistress looked down impassively at Lydia, seemingly oblivious to her tear-filled eyes.

  “Now to fluff my pillows,” uttered the woman, and rubber-sheathed fingers clasped at Lydia’s strangled breasts. The smooth digits appeared phallic to her indoctrinated eyes. Without delicacy, her assets were squeezed and kneaded.

  Even while in the midst of suffering her physical mayhem, Lydia could not help but view her mistress with a licentious stare. She was as ruthless as she was beautiful. Her savage usage of Lydia’s body making it clear to the slave that she was property to be used and abused as the mistress saw fit.

  Already, Lydia was eager to reach forward and simply place her hands on the gleaming latex-sheathed mounds. The tiny dimples that the woman’s nipples pushed out beckoned to be touched. The legs splayed across her torso, the skirt stretched taut by the wide split, letting the sight of fishnet flow into shadow before her sex could be spied. The warm rubber rear forced her down, hips teasing her eyes, all of it providing a mental torment to rival the bondage. Lydia ached to hold the rubber-bound frame, to let her hands drift across the dark surfaces and wallow in the woman’s power. She yearned to feel the total control she held over her, to lose herself in the aura of dominance.

  But Lydia was restrained too effectively to even move, and the frustration became more of a source of annoyance than the ghastly suspension.

  “I think it’s time for a little wax, hmm, slave?” Crooned the sadistic female.

  The haze of wanton lust swiftly evaporated when the mistress lifted a black candle and leaned back to scratch a match across the wall, the head crackling and illuminating itself with a dancing flame.

  A touch to the wick propagated a new flame, and as it grew, its creator was dispatched with an abrupt wave. The fire swiftly formed a molten midnight pool about itself and with a sinister gaiety, the mistress pivoted her hips and reached back to begin tilting the candle over Lydia’s helpless legs.

  “Ready, slave? Here it comes,” promised the woman, and a cluster of splashes landed upon her inner thighs. The almost intangible droplets suddenly flung shockwaves of heat. The response of the soft skin to the fiery fluids made Lydia buck and jolt, her subdued howls emerging from the gag as gurgling purls.

  “Hmm, so tender and susceptible. I think you need more, to toughen you up a bit,” considered the mistress as she continued her work.

  The spasms spawned by the application of more wax caused Lydia to rock and increased the haul upon her limbs, elevating her suffering further. Tears rolled down her cheeks and onto the gag, her eyes flashing wide as she prayed for a way to escape this ordeal.

  The mistress turned back and raised the candle over Lydia’s breasts, tilting it gradually. Lydia whimpered, petitioning the woman not to break her. The woman held off her attack, savoring the angst in Lydia’s eyes, making it clear to her slave that there was to be no reprieve. That no matter how much she begged or pleaded, the mistress would still do as she wished.

  The wax hung on the lip of the candle, swelling against the solidified membrane until the flimsy dam broke and the wax rained upon Lydia’s quivering flesh. The mistress steered the continuous flow across Lydia’s cleavage, into her armpits and down her chest, causing the elevated slave to gnaw rabidly on the gag. Her eyes were screwed shut as she tried to fling her assets out from under the terrible molten monsoon. She wailed that she couldn’t take it, that it was too much for her to bear. But heedless of the words, the woman above continued to sate her appetite for making her own gender suffer.

  As the dominatrix continued to coat Lydia’s torso with the opaque pools, the mistress leaned back a little. Letting her spare hand wander, her fingers slipped between the racked legs and caressed the bald labia.

  The sensation of having the mistress attend to her thus brought ecstatic joy to Lydia. She found the greatest bliss upon the all-too fleeting caress despite the torment that sought to negate it.

  “You like that, slave?” inquired the woman, leaning forward to show her cleavage to Lydia’s tear-streaked gaze.

  Lydia gave a weak nod, her senses startled by the abuse. With a steady wide-open smile, the other woman leaned back. The candle gathered a significant pool of wax as she started to roll her rubber-mummified finger against Lydia’s clit. The smooth tip swirled diligently, the gentleness an absolute contradiction to the cruelty of her confinement.

  Shaking in her bonds, the influx of pleasure made the bondage an alluring discomfort. The stresses of it were enjoyed as an expert digit teased her.

  Lydia saw the woman ferrying the candle over to the same region. She stiffened and whimpered for mercy, as the words were lost behind the impenetrable walls and mouth-swelling form of the gag.

  The finger departed, giving way to the melting candle whose burning issue fell upon the flushed and erect flesh. The burning attack was able to fall without any obstruction of hair and formed dark icicles down the bald cleft as Lydia shrieked in response to this newly materialized tragedy. The rodeo ride she gave the mistress as her physique launched itself against its confines only assisted in jogging the woman’s hand, making her spill more wax onto Lydia’s inner thighs. Her own responses brought additional duress. Finally, though, she started to settle down, her sex pulsating, her body riveted with fatigue.

  The flickering flame cast nebulous shadows across the stark countenance of the mistress, an effect that had Lydia all the more fearful because of the wicked rapture she displayed in making another person suffer. How could she be so heartless? Lydia was a woman, a human being. Was there no compassion? She had been broken, they had reformed her as a submissive harlot, and they weren’t through making her life hell.

  Another dribble of wax was imparted; the lines spread across her inner thighs and through her crotch, the fiery effects making her tense and writhe against the trapping, torturing body of her oppressor.

  “I think that will do for now,” the mistress offered. She set aside the candle and dismounted by swinging a luscious leg over then step
ping away from the stretched, naked form.

  When the woman picked up and opened the steel helmet, Lydia fought to resist, trying to fling her head out of the approaching jaws to display her unwillingness to have it back. If she made the application difficult enough then perhaps the mistress would simply give up and not bother.

  The delaying action had nothing to do with the lack of comfort or the stealing of her mind; it was that she would not be able to review the goddess of latex and dominance while within the terrible shell. This, in itself, was a curse more ferocious than any level of infernal torture. Lydia needed to see her, and it was the only thing that allowed her to weather her training. The image of the woman was a reward that soothed even in the midst of the greatest distress.

  The woman followed the motions but could not close the opened steel jaws.

  “Be still, slave!” She hissed. Yet, despite Lydia’s wish to obey, the need to see her mistress was too great.

  Snagging Lydia’s hair, the woman kept the rein tight, defeating all movements. Any attempt now caused stabbing riots of pain to spread throughout her scalp.

  The eyes of the prisoner widened in awe as the mistress stepped forward and turned. The other woman’s abdomen passed over her hovering gaze, the woman stepping astride Lydia’s face. She stared at a mountain range of latex fields, the belly and breasts rising far up, leading to the woman’s merciless gaze. The fishnet-encased thighs clamped to either side of her throat, holding firm. The sight and feel of this action made all her troubles more than worthwhile. With her head trapped in this delightful grip, the helmet was closed into place. It left the bewitching image stamped firmly on Lydia’s mind’s eye, the woman’s face lingered even as Lydia was plunged into inky blackness.

  Closing the dome of metal upon Lydia’s head, the mistress locked it once more into position. The weight made her head loll back to the limits of her neck. It was then that she realized this helmet was different. Two one-way panels allowed her to peer through tiny slits and the reflective glass made the helmet seem to be without aperture from the outside. The restricted and dulled sight was enough to let her see her owner, pleasing Lydia no end.