Bondage Place Page 4

  “Polish my boots with your sex and tell me the tale of your incarceration,” demanded the woman.

  With no need for a repeat of the order, Lydia ducked forward and locked her limbs around her mistress’ leg. She clasped the taut fabric, the firm flesh beneath making her livid with desire. Slipping her belly onto the toe, she rode her abdomen back and forth, shivering with delight as she masturbated on the footwear of her oppressor. Slithering across the leather, she groaned and began to relate her tale between shuddering pants, telling of her flight and the mistake that had resulted in this injustice. Only now, her sense of bitterness had been washed away. Her love of her imprisonment was now a precious thing to her, an existence she would never knew how deeply she could love and cherish.

  Swapping to the other foot, she confessed everything about her confinement and led the woman through the catalogue of bullying and oppression that had brought her to their initial meeting.

  “Now lick them clean,” she hissed as Lydia finished her story and the crop sprung free to deliver a biting weal of goading.

  Slipping down, treasuring the sting of the stroke, Lydia lapped at the footwear. The sheen of moisture her pudenda had deposited filled her mouth and caused her hand to snake down between her legs and continue the stimulation.

  “I actually believe you, slave,” she uttered with aloof tones.

  “Thank you, mistress, I wouldn’t I...” she began, her words distorted by her worship and then quickly thrown out as a yelp when the scourge kissed her wiggling rear.

  “Don’t talk with your mouth full, slave!” snarled the woman and paused to ensure Lydia was returning to her duty.

  Slowly, Lydia retraced her steps, covering the routes her belly had made upon the hoots. She cleaned them meticulously with profound joy until, finally, the entire surface had been covered, and regrettably, her task was finished. Was her ordeal finally over? Her confession was believed and her status as a spy purged. Would they give her back her life? Did she want it? Could she merge back into the mundane world with all its base desires and carnal banality? She had been converted to a new creed of desire, and it was a faith that required constant and zealous indulgences or else kindle the most profound distress and mourning. She had to stay here now, for where else could she find the perpetual slavery she so desperately required? She could not afford to pay a professional for the duration of her needs, and finding a lifetime partner with the correct tastes would be even more laborious and infinitely more hazardous than the normal dating crusade.

  Unwilling to stop, she started to continue along old areas, allowing her masturbation to covertly proceed under the pretense of having yet to finish the boot worship.

  The mistress indulged her slave for a short while and then chose to bring an end to the obvious overlaps. The woman clipped a leash to her throat and drew Lydia back to her feet. A sharp tug brought her in the mistress’ wake, and wandering behind, she stared intently at her tyrant. The ripple of fabric across her rear entranced Lydia. The flicker of refracted light upon it had her heart pounding in her chest as the taut line between the cleft of her uncompromising buttocks stretched in oscillating ripples upon her every stride.

  So preoccupied was she with this tantalizing view that she did not even notice that they were leaving the chamber in which she had been held for so long, the room that was the very place of a decadent rebirth.

  Chapter Four

  Diablo lit her cigarette and took a deep, long draft, the fulgent embers of the tip revealed her dour features before she blew the churning plume of gray in her victim’s direction.

  The woman was virtually unconscious and failed to detect the warm acrid tobacco scent as it flowed over her slack features. Suspended by her wrists, the weave of coarse rope spread her captive’s arms wide. More coils splayed her legs. Her boots and leather gloves eased the chafing of the rough strands. Her tight Lycra leggings remained largely intact except for several slices in the fabric that Diablo’s bullwhip had torn, opening the material and imparting a cruel slice to the skin beneath. Most of the welts she had bestowed were deep and agonizing but had failed to breach the fabric, hiding them beneath the smooth black second skin.

  Leaving the cigarette hanging from her ruby lips, Diablo sauntered around the guard. Her body was completely naked except for a black satin thong and a set of heeled court shoes, a residual addiction from her time in the palace.

  Flicking her long black hair over her shoulders, she ran her hands down the chest of the guard, the buttons of the shirt skipping against her nails. She wrenched apart the garment, sending buttons skipping into the darkness of the rough brick chamber.

  Looking over the shapely assets of the woman, Diablo ran her hand along the satin cups of her black bra, the torn folds of the shirt hanging loose, exposing her goal.

  In one swift step, she moved behind the woman and yanked down on the back of the shirt, ripping it from the guard, making her jolt from the rough treatment.

  Tossing it aside, Diablo took the cigarette from her lips and caressed the firm buttocks of the guard with her spare hand. Prodding a few of the cuts, she made the woman mewl softly and tighten in her bonds, the leather of gloves and boots creaking.

  Reaching around, Diablo took hold of the woman’s nipples, massaging them with firm pinches. The flesh was hopelessly vulnerable to her wishes. Small wriggles emerged from the guard as she hung limp, her neck-length hair hanging over her face in damp, sweat-soaked strands.

  Diablo’s hands lowered further, reaching under the waist of the leggings and plunging deeper, her finger reaching out to rub against the woman’s sex. The guard whimpered meekly and seemed to sag as her clit started to inadvertently respond to the touch. She looked for any hint of pleasure to distract her from the pain.

  Diablo grinned as she felt moisture start to emerge, and then, she pinched at the sensitive nugget to have her captive squeal and spasm. Diablo followed her motions and kept pinching at her, making the guard sob afresh with desperation.

  Chuckling malevolently to herself, Diablo walked away and grabbed a set of bootlaces. She then returned to the prisoner and formed them into two nooses. Pulling down the bra cups, she slipped them onto the guard’s breasts, pushing the hoops to the base of each of the guard’s assets and then yanking them tight.

  The guard tensed and gave small struggles, trying to overcome her exhaustion. The flesh started to darken as the circulation was hampered, the breast bondage rigorous in its effects on the woman. Diablo let these effects settle in for a while.

  As soon as the sensitivity in her breasts was suitably magnified and raw, Diablo started to flick her nipples, catching the very tips to make the guard jolt. Laughing callously, Diablo continued to abuse the points, making the guard whine as she tried to cope with her despair and the horror of her incarceration.

  Wandering back, Diablo took her bullwhip from a nail in the wall and unleashed the coiled serpentine tongue with a flick.

  The guard had confessed everything she knew long ago. Diablo was torturing her for fun now and for revenge. Guards like this had been responsible for sending her into the base of the prison for training by that harridan mistress. Then, she had ended up in the palace, abused and tormented until she had managed to escape and flee into the jungle. The resistance had found her while she was starving and bewildered, tottering through the depths. It had not taken much to convince her to join their cause.

  Her knowledge of pain from her own experiences made her an excellent interrogator. She sought the location of the president’s private palace from those the rebellion captured and brought to her. Any coup was doomed to failure unless they located his private sanctum.

  Diablo loved her work, loved to make others suffer as she had done. It was no longer really a vendetta against everything and everyone because she had developed an abiding love for seeing people grovel and beg for mercy. She loved to see them break before her eyes, knowing that it was she who had orchestrated their demise.

  The guard before her was definitely attractive, even more so because of her bondage. Ambushed while off duty, she had been brought to Diablo in chains and had suffered severely. Under such purgatory, she had snapped after a relatively short time. It seemed that the guard could dish out agony and humiliation but not take any of her own medicine.

  Looking across the alluring form of the humbled woman, Diablo privately vowed that this guard would know well of what she had once distributed to the prisoners. As she studied the helpless form, pulling at her restraints, Diablo resolved herself to sparing this prisoner a richly deserved execution. Nor would she hand her over to the rest of the rebels who would no doubt torture her crudely, rape her and then shoot her.

  Instead, she wanted this woman to wail and squirm, to endure bondage and degradation the likes of which no woman had ever known. She wanted to reform this officer into a drooling animal that licked her heels and did whatever she commanded.

  Whirling the bullwhip, Diablo flung its slender tip forth to etch a vivid line in the guard’s hindquarters. Her head jerked up and her scream filled the room. The shriek inspired Diablo to continue. Her expert marksmanship and practiced skill with the whip sent out stroke after stroke to carve into the woman’s back and rear as she convulsed helplessly against her bondage.

  The location of the president was known. The rebels were mustering for the final assault. It was only a matter of time.

  Chapter Five

  Lydia was shown a small door and found herself in a small room that appeared to be a laundry chamber. Several large industrial washing machines sat against the opposite wall beside tumble dryers. A cabinet with a glass front bore various large containers for the supply of washing liquids while a heavy chair with restraints was placed to one side. A set of hair clippers was hooked beside the plug that powered them and a dustpan and brush lay on the floor. The metal loop was filled with shorn hair from previous visitors.

  “Take a seat, slave,” ordered the woman. She pushed Lydia onto the wood and then used the leather trammels riveted onto the legs and back to secure her. Lydia’s form was swallowed up by the firm grip of the leather strips, the chair pulling her into its stark embrace.

  Grabbing the clippers, the mistress used the attached head to trim Lydia’s hair to a standard and universal cut, one even inch all over. She then removed the plastic prongs to have the bared teeth of the clippers attend the sides, leaving her with a spiky carpet of bristling black on top and smooth stubble along the sides.

  Lydia watched without concern as the strands tumbled before her gaze. They dropped all around her as the mistress worked, removing the tangled and knotted strands, the hairs split and twisted from ill treatment and lack of attention.

  When the restraints were unfastened and she was encouraged to rise, she felt considerably better. Her appearance was tended and altered by the one she adored.

  Drawn over to one of the washing machines, the mistress opened the door and Lydia finally spied the interior, seeing that they were not for washing clothes but slaves. The inside drum appeared normal at a furtive glance, but then she saw that the steel bore numerous heavy rubber shackles riveted along the perforated metal.

  “In you go, slave, on your belly. It’s time to clean you up,” demanded the mistress, taking in the compiled layers of sweat that had stained Lydia and the severed particles of hair that clung to her greasy skin.

  With trepidation Lydia complied, unable to defy the will of the dominatrix due to her extensive education.

  Lying on her stomach she felt the smoothed fingers of her owner start to take up the straps and secure them to her. A cross formation pressed her chest against the steel, her legs being spread and attached to fetters, stretching the limbs up and out into the air before they were connected to the drum.

  Manacles connected her wrists behind her back and a chain was used to hoist them up, pressing her into the metal as her shoulders churned in pain from the pose. A lock captured them and held them high, leaving her open and vulnerable to the imminent flood.

  “See you soon, slave,” smiled the dominatrix. She shut the door and locked it before adjusting the settings and pouring a full measure of washing liquid into the small tray beside the controls.

  Lydia trembled as she heard the machine start to fill its reservoirs with water and heat them to the preset temperature. Breathing softly in her small cell, filled with tense languor, she awaited the inevitable deluge. She recalled all the times she had stared at clothing being thrashed around within such a machine and wondered how she could hope to cope with a similar event.

  Hot, soapy jets spat from the openings and the drum began to roll her. Lydia’s face was thrust into the deepening pool at the bottom. It cut off her breath before she rose again, then she was flung overhead and back into the frothy lake, forcing her to close her eyes or risk getting soap in them.

  Lydia was hard-pressed to judge when she was emerging from the waters or about to enter them. The machine rolled her through the pool with great speed until she was dizzy and nauseous.

  Sometimes it reversed direction, thrashing her through the churning waters backward. On other occasions, it paused, leaving her submerged for a few moments as it awaited the commencement of another cycle. Holding her breath as best she could, she was tormented by the constant flood. Her breath was flecked with moisture as it entered her lungs, making her cough, splutter and retch, depriving her of the ability to ready for the next dunking. Again and again, she was spun around, the soapy waters replenishing constantly before warm water poured through the interior and washed away the suds, rinsing her sore anatomy.

  A spin cycle hurled her round and round in a blur of motion, her scream filling the interior as she was beset by giddiness. Her mind was scrambled and tormented by the effects of the ordeal. Her body was forced against the steel by the centrifugal pressure. Her breasts were crushed beneath her body, her fingers barely able to claw at her restraints as her cheek was ground against the curved interior. The blood felt like it was being sucked from her limbs and injected into her body, filling it with struggling force as she wept and wailed, the air growing hot as the drying cycle continued.

  Finally the drum slowed to a halt and did not move, but blasts of warm air were still filling the interior, buffeting her with a terrifying gale. Resting in the tidies of the sultry hurricane, she let her senses recover, the world still spilling over and over after her treatment. She prayed that it was the actual end and that another cycle not be due for an extra thorough cleansing of her form.

  A whimpering gasp of relief spilled from her lips as the mistress opened the door und began to unfasten the restraints.

  “There, a nice and sparkling fresh slave,” she crooned.

  She helped the dizzy Lydia from the machine and watched as she collapsed into a tight ball, holding herself, waiting while her mangled equilibrium returned. The world seemed to tilt and roll beneath her and she closed her eyes to try and recover, it was like being exceptionally drunk and trying to sleep, except that the intoxication she felt was from her submission. And it was a far more delightful alternative to ordinary excessiveness.

  Chapter Six

  After moving out of the laundry room and back into the passage, Lydia was led into a winding maze. Her destination unknown, her attention was fixed on her abuser rather than her route. A weighty door was drawn open to expose a diminutive cell; the interior was dark and swallowed by shadow and the smell of desperation. The low ceiling presented a deep-set ring that had the leash threaded through and tied off. It kept Lydia on her toes and her arms flailed until they were snagged and sealed behind her back in metal cuffs. The rattle of the teeth echoed throughout the small chamber.

  Stepping into her captive’s vision, the woman drew the crop with slow menace and flipped it through the air, declaring her intent to flagellate her slave.

  “Do you want to be punished, slave?” asked the woman, gripping the crop near the head and handle, flexing it.

  “Y-yes, Mistress,” she replied softly.

  “Why, slave?” questioned the woman, not to doubt Lydia’s submission but to have it confirmed from her own lips.

  “I…I need to be disciplined, Mistress,” she muttered.

  “Have you been bad then, slave?” asked the woman with a perked eyebrow.

  “No, Mistress,” she blurted quickly and then calmed her words. “I need the punishment to constantly remind me that I’m your property, Mistress.”

  “Good, slave. You see, you know you must be tortured and punished relentlessly to keep you aware of your position,” she murmured, reaching out with the hooped lip to draw soft lines along Lydia’s curves.

  “Yes, Mistress,” sighed Lydia as it started to caress her nipples, making them rise and stand up to the touch of the leather.

  “Then say it again, slave. I want to hear it,” she ordered.

  “Mistress. Please whip me. Show me I am owned by you, Mistress,” hissed Lydia, dancing on tiptoe as she was stroked.

  A wide whack carried the rod onto her flank, making Lydia cry out and struggle in her bonds. The searing burn of the weapon ate into her upon a rapid volley of strikes. Each stroke was delivered with alacrity, depriving her of the chance to beg and implore her to stop. The mistress only left Lydia with breath enough to answer the awful sting of the crop as it searched out her most vulnerable areas. She assailed her rear then the backs of her thighs and finally her proffered breasts. Lydia released squalls of dismay as she was thoroughly chastised, her body yanking at the collar, her arms trying to reach up and unfasten it as she broke into gambados of response. Her mind roared with regret at having petitioned the beating, her instincts holding full control as she was abused.

  The assault stopped and left her wheezing and exhausted. She hung limp in her collar, her legs weak beneath her, the lines of her new bruises stabbing at her.

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