Chapter 4
As the weeks progressed, Rachel dove deeper and deeper into the kinky world I had opened for her. In our sessions we tested her limits and explored her passions. She was voracious. All the enthusiasm I had witnessed in her work as a designer was equally as evident in her desire to experiment in my playroom. She had little tolerance for pain, be that flogging, clamps, or uncomfortable bondage. That suited me, while many of my professional clients liked to be whipped, or degraded, it wasn’t something I relished.
The intoxicating aspect of domination for me was always the exchange of power, the ability to control. For some that was manifested through punishment, as the ultimate submission to my authority, my ability to inflict pain to ‘correct’ their behaviour. Unlike a true sadist, however, the pain was never the point. It was just something they instinctively wanted to avoid, something to make them struggle in their inescapable bonds, something to reinforce the fact that I had the power to choose their fate, and they did not.
With Rachel, such torments could be reserved solely as a true punishment, for when her behaviour slipped out of the submissive mode I demanded. With her strapped onto my punishment bench, bum high in the air, her thighs and the soles of her feet exposed, a little whippy cane applied carefully and strictly, brought immediate contrition and sobbing, genuine promises to improve.
As a submissive, she was glorious. Eager to learn and eager to serve. Such corrections as I did need to apply were always either from presumptions - typically assuming that the fantasy she imagined was my desire and acting without instruction - or from mistakes brought on when overwhelmed by sensation or lack of endurance. The more we played, the fewer they became. She was learning to trust my command over her, and our fantasies aligned very well. I could see she was trying to push herself: enduring for longer, taking more; whether to impress me or test herself I couldn’t be sure.
What was clear was that when she entered that submissive headspace, she was in it deeply, and only my explicit instruction would bring her back out. More than once our Thursday sessions ran long, with us deep in a hot, intense moment and me losing track of time. At one point I had to shoo her out of the back door of the playroom wing, clutching her regular clothes, stuffing into her hand the key to the chastity belt that held two buzzing toys locked inside of her. The client whose afternoon session we had almost run into got a mistress who had skipped lunch and was really quite hangry; I am sure I was exceptionally strict and cruel with him that day. Then again, as he left, he thanked me profusely for ‘the absolute best session’, so perhaps the morning fun had inspired me. Or perhaps he just genuinely had been a ‘very, very bad boy’ that month; very likely I’d wager, given his job as a lawyer.
Later on, Rachel texted me to confess that she had re-dressed, but had deliberately walked home with the belt still on. Thank goodness she hadn’t driven, but either way I gave her a spanking next time for the unsanctioned orgasms (plural) achieved with ‘my’ toys that evening.
And so the boundaries between the Thursday morning sexy-times and our day-to-day lives started to erode. It was nearly impossible to maintain the distinction, when she was so enthusiastic about wearing rubber at home. Her own collection of latex was beginning to grow, still modest, compared to mine, but a couple of well-fitting catsuits, as well as stockings, gloves, knickers and tops. Hoods she seemed to reserve for sessions with me, I think associating them with that transformation into a submissive object for me.
Each new purchase was extensively modeled and my phone was blown up with mirror selfies to spark my imagination. The images of the shorts with built-in dildo and plug were accompanied by a blushing face and two aubergine emojis. I soon learned to tell the expression that betrayed the fact that she was stuffed, in public. I would chide her for the foolishness of driving while so distracted, but this was ‘outside of my domain’ so it lacked the force of a command. It wasn’t that she was an exhibitionist anyway, I think she was simply enjoying trying to train her body to the sorts of pleasures we enjoyed in the playroom. I may have offhand used the phrase “train your holes” during one of our sessions, and it seemed that had struck a chord.
The day that my carefully established fence around our play-time truly collapsed was another session which ran long. Her bondage and outfit were especially elaborate that morning. A relatively light under-layer of latex, stockings and shoes, of course, but primarily a bodysuit with cutouts at the chest. Her lovely little breasts were fondled and tugged through the slits, to be held firmly at the base by the rubber. Quickly they throbbed red with blood, her nipples standing proud and perky, immediately sensitive. I took great pleasure in testing that, with fingertips, lips and teeth, until she gasped.
Over that I fastened the heavier part of her bondage, a straitjacket in heavy-weight thick latex. Zipped up the back, and then so many buckles and straps. Every tug made it tighter, and more intense. She watched me intensely as I pulled out my little tub of padlocks.
Click. Click. Click.
Such a lovely little noise. Every click is a little bit of helplessness, distilled. I could see her staring at the key for all of them, dangling on its chain around my neck, dangling down into my cleavage.
Click. Click. Click.
How quickly she dropped into subspace, thinking about the locks, the straps, the jacket binding her so tightly. No toys between her legs, today, but I knew she wanted some. I lingered on the strap between her thighs, making sure it was pulled in very snugly, before… Click. She whimpered as my fingers caressed the strap, feeling the heat there. A firm pressure stimulating her arousal, making the rubber crotch of her bodysuit slick with it.
I enjoyed every touch, taking my time, caressing every part of her bound body while fussing over the locks. She knew better than to speak, even ungagged. Patiently letting me take control of her whole body. As I adjusted the strap over her chest, she closed her eyes, involuntarily, and I knew the rubber of the straitjacket must be rubbing her engorged nipples delightfully. I took a little bit of time fussing over that strap especially, not trying to hide my smirk.
Once her arms were pulled through the loop at the front and then buckled into place at the back, she was a delightfully horny, helpless little rubber package for me.
Click. Click.
“Mine,” I crooned, tapping the key at my chest.
“Yours, mistress.”
“Good girl.”
The next stage was to fix her in place. The jacket had oh so many rings, and for every ring, a chain, and a padlock. Clicked into place, and then strung up to rings and hooks in the wooden beam and pillars. It was a big tub of locks. Once her torso was secured, I could adjust the tension in each, until there was no leeway, in any direction.
Her eyes were closed still, soaking in the sensations, secure in the embrace of the jacket and the support of the chains. It was good that she was comfortable, as I still had a few more items to add. A posture collar, thick and stiff. Click. Ankle cuffs. Click. Click. Thigh cuffs. Click. Click. Each brought another chain, securing her to the frame, legs spread. Not especially wide, but enough to expose the strap between her legs, demanding another fondle. Then another, joining her ankles and thighs together. All adjusted to eliminate slack, and remove any play in any direction. A spiderweb of chain, and at the centre, my delicious prey.
When I was finally finished, I stood back to admire the image I had created. She opened her eyes, lustfully watching me, drifting and happy in subspace, if I was any judge.
“Time for the final part.” She watched me open one of the lesser-used cabinets, and retrieve something new. “It needs to be just that bit harder for you, my little toy.” She squirmed but said nothing. Her eyes fixated on the gas mask I had retrieved, taking in its big, round eyeholes and the intimidating tube dangling from its mouthpiece.
In a moment it was swiftly brought over her face, strapped into place behind her head. No padlock, for this one, but bound as she was it might as well have been glued to her face, there was no way she could get it off. As soon as it tightened, the seal around her face was complete, and the sound of her breath through the tube was noticeable and noisy.
Another trip to the cupboard retrieved an innocuous looking bottle, which I partly filled in the sink next door. Coming back I was amused to see her desperately trying to turn her head to see what I was doing. The posture collar and the mask’s circular eyeholes combined to give her a suddenly very small field of view. Once I was outside of it, she was left guessing what would come next.
Screwing the bottle into the end of the tube made it immediately clear what my intention was. She immediately started to struggle in the jacket. The moment of realisation, of helplessness, never ceased to raise my blood pressure. I caught myself running my hands over my own rubbery outfit, squeezing and stimulating, while I watched her squirm.
“Gently now. It’s going to be very hard to breathe through the bubbler.” Her eyes sought mine from behind the slightly darkened lenses of the mask, her pleading expression accompanied by a slight whine that I’m sure she couldn’t suppress. I hooked the bottle through a ring on the front of her straitjacket, and let her find her own pace of breathing. The gurgling sound of the bubbles seemed loud in the quiet playroom. Her body strained and stretched at the unforgiving rubber embrace of the jacket. Nothing she could do would bring her any relief, and that was part of the delight of it. I watched her for a long moment in silence, smiling and idly touching myself.
Eventually she found a soft, slow rhythm to her breathing. That was my cue to up the ante. Retrieving a wand vibrator from a cupboard, I stepped in close. Her body felt hot against mine, as I pushed against her, every bit of slack in the chains going away. The head of the vibe I pressed firmly against the strap that ran between her legs, buzzing at a middling setting. That made her start to thrash, but it was easy to wrap my arm around her bound form, trapping the vibe between us, giving both of us the throbbing, pulsing sensation. But only one of us was struggling to breathe. Only one of us could do nothing but thrash against her bondage. And only one of us was a pent-up, horny mess, underneath her rubber.
Well… maybe I was a little pent-up and horny. Grinding my hips against hers, the vibe felt deliciously good. I had only intended to tease her, make her strain against her bonds, maybe edge her, just for a little while. But now the toy was between us, I didn’t want to stop. The lenses of her mask were steaming up, stopping me from seeing her eyes, and stopping her from seeing the lust in mine. But I’m sure she could feel it. Her thrashing was growing more desperate. If I made her cum, would she have enough strength to keep breathing? The bubbler is insidious that way, making you feel like you’re too tired even to breathe.
A soft chime came to my awareness, over the sound of the bubbler and the vibe, over even the sound of my blood rushing in my ears. Fuck. The lawyer had another session this afternoon, and the alarm was my final warning of his impending arrival. I should have been wrapping up with Rachel an hour or more before now, instead I was wrapping up Rachel herself, and losing myself in her teasing. I had sworn to myself that I wouldn’t be as careless this week.
Letting myself back away, the pressure from the vibe vanished. Rachel’s little moan was part relief, part regret, if I was any judge. “We are well past our time, my dear.” She swung there, in the chains as I assessed the situation. Fuckity fuck. That is way too many padlocks.
The devil on my shoulder whispered a suggestion that, on another day, I would never have considered. Perhaps it was my unfulfilled lust, or perhaps a sense of Rachel’s own desires. Either way, as I began to unlock the chains holding her to the frame, and she patiently waited for me to complete the process of freeing her, I started to talk.
“See now, the thing is, I’m really not done with you yet. And we are running very late. All these padlocks, all these straps, and I’d have to tackle them all before you’d be able to sort the rest.” I could see her head tilting, quizzically, against the posture collar, as chain after chain fell down to dangle from her body, and she had to return to standing with her own balance. “There simply isn’t time. So I’m just going to… not.”
She clearly didn’t understand, but didn’t have much choice other than to follow me as I led her through to the red playroom. I unscrewed the bubbler and put it to the side, but left the mask and tube in place. The relief was evident, both in her breath and her pose.
“I’m going to put you away, like a toy, and save you for later,” I told her. The dominant piece of furniture in the red room is the ample four-poster bed. Upholstered in rich, red velvet, its columns are imposing and black, and needless to say, are festooned with rings, tie-down points, and other modes of restraint. By now I was opening the door to the cage underneath, and realisation was dawning in my plaything.
“No, mistress, wait, please, you can just unlock me…” Her voice was muffled but clearly audible through the mask.
“This isn’t a negotiation, dear. In you go.” I was already pushing her down to her knees, and to her credit, she didn’t resist. Getting in, without the use of her arms, required some planting of her face into the padded floor, and rolling in an undignified way. The chains still trailing from her rattled over the metal bars, and I had to gather them and push them all inside. Closing the door with a loud clang, she was trapped.
“You’re going to be a good girl for me, and stay nice and quiet. My visitor will not… must not… know that you’re under here. And when his time is up, in a couple of hours, I will get you back out and give you a special treat.”
Her whimper was quiet, but she nodded, defeated. I saw her part her legs, squirming in place, trying to get comfortable. I moved the chains where I could, making sure she wasn’t lying on any of them, and when I was confident she could lie for a time, I drew the curtains on the outside of the cage. I had no intention of bringing the lawyer into this room today, but I knew that the darkness would help Rachel drift off into a sense of isolation.
I had barely enough time to make myself presentable and fix my makeup back to the required quality before he rang the doorbell. Fortunately my outfit for Rachel was already deliciously dominant and appropriate for the session, as I’d definitely no time to change. Did I put my distractions aside and perform convincingly for my client? I believe so. Was I rushing him a little, and making sure things wrapped up neatly and on time? Absolutely. But he appreciated the chance to serve, and I indulged all of the wicked fantasies he hoped for, as we always did. And no, you may not ask what they were, I do have some degree of professional discretion.
No sooner had the door closed behind him and the sound of his car receded down the driveway than I was back in the red room, opening the curtain. The jerk from Rachel’s body as I whipped the fabric away told me that she had lost herself completely in the isolating darkness. I doubted she would have been able to sleep, but all things are possible.
Helping her out of the cage and up, she begged me, politely but desperately, to be helped to pee. I had worried about that, given the length of our morning session, and it was without much dignity that I took her to the en-suite and plonked her onto the toilet. Wiping her off afterwards was an oddly intimate moment, not in a sexual way, but because she leaned her body against me as I did. The shared recognition of the fact that she was completely dependent on me was inescapable.
I almost let her go, right there and then. I was already breaking the rule I had set for us, extending our fun beyond the Thursday morning sessions. The guilt of having put her into that position felt tangible. And as I knelt beside her, our eyes met in an awkward, silent pause. I think she felt it too, sensed that I was wavering. But in a little, quiet, muffled voice, she asked, “So mistress, did I earn my treat?”
That was all it took, to open the floodgates of my desire again. She had an out, but she didn’t want it. I slipped my fingers behind her head, and kissed the forehead of the mask. “You were a very good girl.”
I brought her back to the little kitchen space by the dressing room, took off the mask, and sat her down while I raided the fridge. I always keep it stocked with tasty, nibbly food, and well… a can or two of squirty cream and honey, for those sessions where things get a little… messy. Anyway, I took great care in feeding her, and myself. There was something sensual about the fact she had no use of her arms. She made sure to suck my fingers into her mouth at every opportunity, and lick everything clean in a delectable way. By the time we had sated our hunger, I knew exactly what her ‘treat’ would be.
She let out a lovely little moan when I clipped a leash into her collar and led her back through to the red room, along with a bottle of nice red wine and a glass. Her chains jingled along behind her the whole way. It is a very comfortable room, and contains one of my favourite pieces of furniture, other than the lovely bed and its cages. The chair that inspired it was created by the ingenious and sadly late Jeff Gord, described as his ‘kinky barstool’, I believe.
For those who haven’t seen it before, imagine a high wooden barstool, with ‘captain’s chair’ back and armrests for the sitter. Well, the dominant sitter anyway. Someone else gets to sit underneath. Their head pokes up through a hole in the seat, secured in place at the back of their neck by a wooden section that slots back into the seat. They are presented with their mistress’s crotch, and no way to escape it.
Underneath the seat can be configured various ways, and when I commissioned my kinky carpenter to make it, I made sure it would be flexible to various different sized occupants and bondage scenarios. The sub’s arms can be restrained behind them, typically in an armbinder, or their wrists can be secured into blocks at the back of the chair legs. Their knees must be folded tight up against their chest for them to fit in the cramped space, and adding some straps ensures they are held tightly in places.
Rachel’s straitjacketed arms in front of her would be a problem, getting in the way of her legs, so with regret, I set about unchaining and unstrapping her. The jacket peeled off of her sweaty, flushed body with a delicious noise, and the strap between her legs was clearly soaked, not just with sweat. On the upside, removing the crotch-strap meant that the other little ‘extra’ for the chair could be added: a sizable rubber shaft, mounted to the bottom of the chair.
Rachel watched as I screwed it into place. I couldn’t tell if her expression was one of fear or anticipation. But squatting down in front of the chair and shuffling into position, she showed no reluctance to pull her bodysuit to one side and spear the shaft inside of her, with a horny little moan.
“Such a slut,” I whispered in her ear, to bring out a blush on her face, “I love it.”
She squirmed on the dildo, knees already pressed into her chest. The stockings would rub against her nipples, and give her the delicious friction of latex on skin that I know she loved. She was almost surprised when I slid the block that would capture her neck into place, and screwed it into place securely. Capturing her wrists in the back of the chair was the work of a moment, and then she was the sexiest piece of furniture I could imagine.
Swinging my leg over her head, I planted my bum firmly into the seat, and poured myself a glass of the wine.
“It has been quite a day, hmm?” I caressed her head with my free hand, fussing over her messy hair, teasing the loose strands back so that they didn’t tickle her face. She didn’t respond, but I could see her straining to look up. She would barely be able to see my face for my ample, rubber-clad bust in the way, and that was entirely deliberate. “I think we both deserve a reward, don’t you? And not just the wine…”
I reached down and slowly, deliberately, tugged the zipper of my catsuit upwards, right in front of her nose. My wetness was all too apparent, as the cool air hit the newly-exposed skin. I heard her moan softly, and felt the hot breath against my pussy lips.
“Do you want to taste me, toy?” I crooned, taking a long sip of the wine.
“Oh god, yes, mistress.”
I could see her lips pursing. I knew she couldn’t reach me, even if she pressed her throat against the wooden ring that captured it.
“Do you want to make your mistress cum?”
“Ff-,” she swallowed the curse, biting her lip, before continuing, “Yes. Yes please, mistress.”
I inched forward, making sure not to spill the wine, until my nether lips pressed into her face. She let out a low, primal moan, and went to town on me. This wasn’t the first time I had teased her with my sex while bound, but I had never taken advantage of her like this before. Gods, her mouth was exquisite. Her tongue lashed against my sensitive nub, and she kissed and suckled and delved delightfully. I started with my hand behind her head, cradling it and encouraging her face into me. The wine sloshed around in the glass. To begin with I tried to take another drink, but it was very apparent that I was sensitive enough that I needed my elbows to prop me up. Before very long at all I was holding myself up on the arms of the chair, wine glass held in a firm grip, hips pushed into her eager mouth.
I could feel her body moving in the embrace of the chair as well, rocking back and forth on the toy inside of her. But the more she kissed, and sucked and licked, the less I paid attention to anything other than the escalating fire in my crotch. Before I knew it, I was cresting the wave of the most intense orgasm, pressing my pussy firmly into her face. As I bucked and tensed, she kept licking and sucking, and all of my juices, flowing into her mouth, were consumed with lust. And then I felt her convulse underneath me, neck tilting back and shoulders braced against the underside of the seat, as her own climax took her.
Eventually I regained enough of my composure to pull my hips back and let her breathe, without my sex pressed against her face. The wine was put back on the counter, and I cradled her head with both hands, praising her thoroughly. I did make sure not to leave her in that position for too long, even in post-orgasmic bliss, muscles folded so tightly into a small space cramp very quickly.
As we flopped down onto the bed together, I couldn’t help but stare at her beautiful body, crowned with a head of frankly crazy, frizzy red hair. I didn’t want it to end, despite the fact that we’d already spent most of the day in various stages of bondage and pleasure, but I knew we should. I half expected her to ask permission to go and shower, to undress and return to normal.
Yet as she looked back at me, she still had that satisfied, submissive expression on her face. “Mistress?”
“Yes, my dear?”
“I know I’ve already had my treat, but…”
“Mmmhmm?”
“Could I…” she trailed off, blushing. I let her take her time, formulating the question. “When I was under the bed…” Her eyes were bright, nervous, searching mine for my reaction. “When you put me away… Like your toy… I imagined you were above me, sleeping… And… touching yourself.”
I smiled, running my fingers over her naked breasts, enjoying the little gasp that touching her sensitive nipples brought. But I let her continue.
“Could I… sleep underneath you tonight, mistress?”
And there it was, the request I couldn’t refuse. Boundaries be damned. So she spent the night. Bound, snugly, in my favourite rubber sleep-sack, completely in the dark, unable to do anything but wriggle. And did I touch myself?
I’ll give you one guess.