A Painful Reunion

Every day, after work, I walk home by the same route. I pass the industrial estate, then skirt the edge of the park, cross the river, and walk a short distance through one of several quiet, non-descript residential neighbourhoods that together constitute the bulk of this town in which I grew up.

I’ve been back here for a year now. It still feels weird.

I’m now about twenty minutes from my flat. I’m walking down a narrow path that runs beside a long chain-link fence behind some buildings, which are on my left.

Between this building and the next there is a small car park – just three spaces, which back straight onto the path behind with no fencing. Sometimes careless parkers make it difficult to get by, but usually the spaces are empty.

Today, the nearest space is occupied by a big, shiny, black Jeep with tinted windows. I notice someone standing the other side of the car. I think nothing of it.

As I draw level, a woman suddenly steps out in front of me.

The first thing I notice about this woman is how tall she is. She’s probably a little over six foot – I’m rather short, but she stands nearly a full head taller than me. In fact, she’s massive in every way – she’s fat but in a solid, firm-looking way, like some powerful animal.

She’s stylishly dressed in dark brown leather ankle boots with a low heel, a brown suede miniskirt, which displays her thick thighs and a cream silk blouse, partially unbuttoned to show a deep line of cleavage between her round, heavy breasts. Around her neck is a chunky gold necklace, which matches her large hoop earrings. Over her shoulder she has an expensive-looking handbag, with a dark brown and cream houndstooth pattern.

She has long, straight, glossy brown hair and an even, natural-looking tan. Her full lips are painted burgundy and her narrow, green eyes glitter with careless hostility.

As I look into her eyes, it hits me. It’s Gemma Weston.

Gemma was two years above me in secondary school. When I joined I’d just turned eleven, while she turned fourteen within the first month of the school year. For the following three years, until she left, she had tortured me mercilessly. She’d beaten me up, locked me in cupboards, called me names and degraded me in front of everyone. I was too scared of her to do anything about it. In fact I was so scared that I would do whatever she told me, even grovelling and sucking up to try and garner her pity. I let her treat me like garbage, and she’d completely gotten away with it.

Fear of running into Gemma was the main reason I was reluctant to move back here. But I had resolved, finally, that if I ever saw her, I would confront her about how she treated me in secondary school.

Now she’s standing in front of me, staring down at me. It’s because I’m staring at her, terrified and rooted to the spot. Finally, trembling, I step forward and in a shaking voice say, “Ge-Gemma Weston…?” It wasn’t supposed to sound like a question, but it did. Her eyes narrow further and her lip curls up into a sneer, revealing large, flat, very white teeth. She drawls, “Yeah, so what? Who the fuck are you?”

She doesn’t even remember me. I wasn’t sure what I’d been expecting, but… this? My meagre courage evaporates. I feel like my throat is closing up. I splutter, “I, I, I, y- you… you…”

For a few moments she stares at me, then her sneer widens into a smirk. “Oooh,” she says, “Sally.”

Gemma had called me that in school because, she said, I looked and acted like a weak, little girl. Unevolved and unimaginative, yes – but to an adolescent boy, especially one who gets pushed around by a girl every day – deeply humiliating. Worse, the name had caught on to some extent, and had stuck with me almost until I left for university.

Hearing it again for the first time in over ten years, I am overcome with anger. Taking another small step forward, I splutter, “Listen, you horrible b-bitch…”

Suddenly, Gemma’s hand whips out and grabs my balls, easily gaining purchase through my thin cargo shorts. I yelp and fall silent, my mouth open in shock.

With her free hand, Gemma grabs the back of my hair. She swings me round and slams me bodily against the back of the Jeep, her big breasts and belly squashed hard against me.

I am too shocked to resist. I’m also too afraid of what she’ll do to my balls. I press my palms flat against the smooth metal of the car and stand there, legs shaking. Her cleavage is right in my face and I can’t help but stare into it, while her smooth, round breasts rise and fall, glistening with sweat on this hot day. I can smell her too, sweat mixed with heavy perfume. Shame now mixes with fear as I feel the inevitable rush of blood, and I stiffen against her hand.

She leans down and breathes into my ear, “Aw, is Sally’s little clitty getting hard? I always knew you liked it rough.”

Suddenly she lets go of my balls and slams her fist into my stomach. She pulls my head forward as I double over, burying my face in her cleavage. I gasp for air but she’s smothering me with her big tits, as my arms flail uselessly. She takes a small step backward, pulling me with her, and deftly opens the boot of the Jeep.

She grabs me under the arm, spins me round and shoves me hard in the back. I careen forward and my knees collide painfully with the bumper. I fall, landing hard on the thin carpeting in the back of the Jeep. Now she’s got my wrists, my arms are behind my back, I hear two sharp clicks and feel cold metal around my wrists. She’s cuffed me.

With my cheek against the carpeting, I keep trying to form words but I’m just making random noises. Then a deafening SMACK! reverberates through my head, accompanied by searing pain, as Gemma hits me hard with her open palm. Her command rings out: “Open your mouth.” Whimpering, seeing stars, the side of my face throbbing, I comply.

Barely a moment later, my mouth is stuffed with a rubber ball, attached to straps which she fixes tightly behind my head. She strokes my cheek and says, “Good girl.”

I realise with dismay that I’m harder than ever. I feel more worthless than I’ve ever felt in my life.

Now Gemma grabs my balls again. As her hand brushes my throbbing erection, my shame deepens even further.

“Oh my gosh, Sally,” she crows, “you are such a horny slut. No wonder you let me do this stuff to you.” Then she tightens her grip and pushes forward a little. In a low, steely voice, she says, “Get in.”

I clamber up on all fours into the back of the Jeep. She climbs in after me, still clutching my balls. Below me there’s a metal ring set into the floor of the boot. Gemma growls, “Head down – down – down!” until my forehead is pressed against the carpeting.

Then everything goes dark as Gemma pulls a black bag over my head. The bag is made of some shiny, synthetic fabric. It has a drawstring around the opening, which she promptly tightens around my neck. I feel her tying it through the metal ring on the floor. I can breathe, but not comfortably.

I’m blind, but I hear Gemma retreating and feel the suspension rock as she climbs down. Then she smacks my arse and I squeal into the ball gag.

“Good girl,” she says again. “Now let’s go for a drive.”

———————————————————————–

Kneeling there in the back of Gemma’s fancy Jeep, unable to see, move or speak, I sink rapidly into a miasma of self-loathing. I can’t believe that, even now, fifteen years later, I’m letting her treat me like this again. I am an adult man, I’m twenty-eight, and I’m still getting beaten up by a girl.

I’m still dizzy from Gemma’s powerful slap, and now from a slight lack of oxygen. And from surging arousal, which I still can’t shake. I’m overwhelmed by thoughts of my face buried in Gemma’s cleavage. I can still smell her perfume, still feel her strong hand between my legs…

Consumed by this reverie, I lose track of time almost instantly. I have no idea how long we’ve been driving but, suddenly, we stop, and I hear a garage door opening. It seems we’ve arrived.

I hear Gemma coming round to the back of the Jeep and opening the boot. She roughly pulls off my trainers, then my socks, then my shorts and my pants, until I’m left in nothing but a t-shirt. Then she climbs in and unties the bag on my head from the metal ring.

She holds onto the drawstring as she climbs out, tugs on it like a leash and says, “Come on, Sally.”

She places her other hand on my bare hip, guiding me as I crawl awkwardly backwards and climb down out of the Jeep. As soon as I’m out she shoves me down roughly onto my knees, then tugs the drawstring again and says, “Heel”.

My hands still cuffed behind my back. I crawl painfully on just my knees across the concrete garage floor, desperately trying to keep up with her.

Gemma leads me through a door into an adjoining room, in which the floor also feels like concrete. By the time we’ve crossed that room, my knees are killing me. At last we stop and, without saying a word, Gemma, with my passive cooperation, manoeuvres me up bodily onto some kind of bench. There’s a raised section in the middle which supports my torso, while my legs rest either side. I feel her fasten leather cuffs around my ankles. Then she uncuffs my hands and fastens my wrists to the bench in the same manner. Oh, fuck… what is she going to do to me?

Then Gemma snaps her fingers and says, “Take the bag off.” For moment I’m confused, until a woman’s voice from in front of me says, “Yes, Mistress Gemma.”

Wait… I know that voice… but it can’t be… can it?

I feel a pair of hands at my neck, loosening the drawstring. Then the bag comes off, and – holy fuck… it is.

I’m staring into the eyes of my first girlfriend, Becky.

Becky and I were in the same year at school. We dated for four years, until I left for university. Becky had stayed in town and become a hairdresser.

Like me, Becky had been one of a handful of kids singled out by Gemma for particular, merciless torment. In fact, I had met both of them at the same time – my ill-fated attempt to stand up for Becky against the mean older girl was what had first put me on Gemma’s radar. It was my first and last act of selfless bravery.

When Gemma left three years later, Becky and I bonded over our shared trauma and the joy we both felt now we were finally free. That’s how we first got together.

The last time I saw Becky was eight years ago, two years after we’d broken up. We said we’d remain friends but, of course, we drifted apart.

Now she looks very different from how I remember her. For a start, she’s kneeling on the concrete floor wearing nothing but bright pink panties and a black leather dog collar. Physically, she looks largely the same – not fat but chubby, with round, firm breasts, large, dimply cheeks and a slightly upturned nose and shy, expectant blue eyes.

Naturally, Becky’s hair was dark brown. For most of the time I knew her it had been long and dyed black, later with a coloured streak in it. Now it’s platinum blonde and shoulder-length, with a fringe.

She’s also wearing heavy, whorish make-up, neon pink lipstick and long fake eyelashes.

Still gagged, I stare at her, questioningly, in wide-eyed disbelief.

“Hey,” she says, smiling at me, “it’s been a long time. It’s good to see you. I’m really glad you’re here…”

She reaches out and holds my face with both hands.

“Listen,” Becky says, looking serious, “there’s something that you need to understand. It’s something totally obvious that we never realised when we were younger, but now it’s, like… my whole life. And now I get to help you understand it – and it’s really exciting.

“I know you’re scared, but just try to relax. Mm-hm, that’s it, take a deep breath and relax. Relax… and get ready.”

Get ready for wha-…?

THWACK! I scream into the gag as my right buttock ignites in searing pain. I rock back and forth against the restraints, squealing madly.

Becky holds my face tight, stroking my cheek and making soothing noises. “Shh, shh, aw, poor baby,” she coos. “I know it hurts,” she says slowly, staring deep into my eyes, “but the pain will help you to understand. Now just look at me and breathe, and relax… relax… relax…”

THWACK! Now my left buttock is on fire. I writhe around and stare helplessly at Becky, my eyes wide with fear and pain, begging her silently to help me.

“I’m going to help you get through this,” Becky says calmly, “but you have to trust me. Just listen to me and trust me, and you’ll be okay – alright?”

Hesitantly, I nod.

THWACK! My whole arse is burning and throbbing now, but I try to focus on Becky. She’s going to help me.

“The first thing you need to realise,” Becky says, “is that there is nothing you can do to stop this. Nothing. You can’t fight, you can’t escape, you can’t argue, or beg, or bargain… There’s literally nothing you can do.”

THWACK! I’m still staring desperately at Becky. She sounds crazy, but I’m in excruciating pain and she’s all I’ve got right now.

“All you can do,” my ex-girlfriend continues, “is submit. Accept that you’re totally powerless, give up, and let Mistress Gemma take control. I promise, as soon as you do that, you’ll be able to deal with the pain – you’ll even start to welcome it.”

THWACK! Am I delirious with agony, or is Becky starting to make sense? I… I can’t tell…

“Look, babe,” she says matter-of-factly, “some people are strong, and some people are weak. You and me – we’re weak. We’ve always been weak. It’s just how we are. But Mistress Gemma is strong. That’s why Mistress Gemma can do whatever she likes to us, and there’s nothing we can do about it. That’s why all we can do is surrender to her will, and let her take charge. It makes sense – right?”

She… she’s right. I can’t deny it. What happened today just proves it. Of course there’s nothing I can do. It’s… all making sense now.

Slowly, I nod.

THWACK! I still squeal into the gag – but I feel calmer than before. At least now I can understand what’s happening, and why.

“That’s good,” smiles Becky, “I knew you would understand. You’ll start to understand more and more that we deserve everything Mistress Gemma does to us – because she’s so strong, and beautiful, and amazing, and we’re just weak, pathetic losers. We’re nothing, and Mistress Gemma is everything. That’s why she can use us however she wants, and we just have to say thank you and do as we’re told.”

THWACK! Now each blow from Gemma seems to drive home what Becky is telling me. I feel like I’ve experienced a revelation – I’m reassessing the world, my whole life, in a new context: I’m weak and powerless, and that’s okay because… it has to be. Because it’s inevitable. I don’t need to be strong, because I exist to be controlled by someone stronger and better – someone like Gemma. And, Becky’s right – I should be grateful…

THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! Now the blows are coming thick and fast, everything behind me is a wall of fire and needles, with my head spinning and bobbing and floating in front of it. But it’s okay, it’s all okay… Becky has shown me the light…

After raining a further series of blows on my backside, Gemma casually walks round in front of me. I marvel at her massive arse under the skirt, swaying from side to side as she walks. Her long shiny hair, which flows nearly down to her waist, also twitches and shimmers with her steps. She’s topless now as well, with her ample, gorgeous tits on full display and her wide, fat belly bared proudly. I see the riding crop in her hand, the tool she used to teach me a much-needed lesson. Becky, staring up at her mistress as a dog might, crawls hurriedly out of the way.

Gemma grabs the back of my hair and crouches in front of me so that our eyes are level. She stares deep into mine and drawls, “Good girl, Sally. You took that whipping well, for a first time. You get it now – don’t you?”

Staring back, I nod.

“Good girl,” she says again. Her praise makes me feel both happy and ashamed. It makes me feel grateful.

“Slut,” she growls at Becky, “help me untie Sally.” Becky replies, “Yes, Mistress Gemma.” Taking one side each, they release my cuffs. Then Gemma goes back behind me and manoeuvres me onto my feet. She pulls off my t-shirt and tosses it aside.

Standing is difficult, but Gemma pulls me hard against her. She hooks her left arm under mine, using her hand to grasp my throat. With her right she shoves the riding crop into my hand, then she reaches down and once again takes hold of my balls. The heel of her palm is pressing hard against the base of my stiff cock. Between that and the feeling of her bare breasts and belly pressed against my back, I’m whimpering with pleasure.

“Slut,” she repeats, “assume the position.”

“Yes, Mistress Gemma,” comes the clearly ingrained response.

Becky at once clambers up onto the bench and kneels in the same position that I had just occupied. I see now that her pink underwear is a thong. The string is not between her hefty buttocks, however, but stretched tight over the flared base of the butt plug that protrudes from between them. Her arsecheeks are already criss-crossed with welts in various stages of healing.

“Now, Sally,” Gemma purrs in my ear, “you’re going to show me that you get it. You’re going to do to your little girlfriend what I just did to you. Show me how weak you are. Show me how little you’re both worth. I want to hear her scream. Do it now, bitch!”

That scene from my childhood – when I’d tried to defend Becky against Gemma, when I’d tried to be brave that one time – replays itself over and over in my head at lightning speed. Then I realise with horror that, in spite of that, my arm is already raised, my muscles are already tense.

I bring the riding crop down, but I flinch as I do so. I swat Becky’s arse lightly, eliciting nothing more than a sharp intake of breath. Instantly, Gemma’s grip on both my throat and my balls tightens.

“Try. Again.” the big woman grates menacingly.

I swallow heavily and raise my arm again. This time, I don’t flinch.

THWACK! Becky yelps loudly.

“Good girl,” chuckles Gemma, “that wasn’t so hard, was it? Now, do it again – harder.”

THWACK! This time, Becky lets out a short, sharp scream. I feel like the lowest form of life for doing this at Gemma’s behest. I frightens me to discover that Gemma can make me do this with just a word. But I know I won’t stop.

“Good,” pronounces Gemma, “again.”

I hit Becky again, and again, and again, until her whole arse is red and swollen. With Gemma’s strong hands on my throat and balls the whole time, and her lips pressed against my ear, I feel like nothing more than a machine that she’s operating. I zone out and let that feeling overtake me.

Eventually, Gemma gets bored of that game. She grabs the riding crop from my hand and steps back a little, releasing me. Instead she grabs the strap behind my head, unfastens it and removes the rubber ball from my mouth. It falls to the floor.

Then she turns me by the shoulders to face her. She lets go. I’m standing in front of her – naked, but unrestrained. I could do anything. I could make a run for it. I could…

I gaze up into her unwavering green eyes.

“Get down on your knees,” she commands, “and kiss my feet.”

Without another thought, my knees quiver and I begin to sink down…

Gemma suddenly grabs me again by the balls and hair and pulls me against her. She’s holding the riding crop in her left hand, along with my hair. She pulls my head back and growls, “When I give you an order you will respond, ‘Yes, Mistress Gemma’ – got it?”

I squeal, “Yes, Mistress Gemma!”

She lets go of my balls and slaps me hard across the face, letting go of my hair at the same time. I stagger back and crumple, landing in a heap on the concrete.

“Now,” she says, “let’s try that again. Come here and kiss my feet.”

My head spinning, I whimper, “Yes, Mistress Gemma.” I raise myself onto my hands and knees and crawl forward a little. I lower my head.

She’s still wearing the ankle boots. Shaking, I lean in, pucker up and kiss the brown leather. First the right, then the left. I do this several times before she says, “Clean the soles,” and lifts and turns one foot so that the point of her toe is against the floor, sole facing outwards.

I wince slightly, then reply, “Yes, Mistress Gemma.” I get down as low as I can and reluctantly start licking the grimy, dusty sole of her boot. It tastes disgusting. I feel like less than nothing. Then she changes feet, and I lick the other one too.

“Now take them off,” she commands. “Yes, Mistress Gemma,” I chime out. It already feels like second nature.

I remove her boots and thin ankle socks, and she orders me to lick her sweaty feet. They smell and taste ripe from walking around in the heat. I bathe every inch of them with my tongue, eagerly now. I realise I’m actually enjoying it, which makes me feel even more ashamed.

While I’m licking her feet, Mistress Gemma says to Becky, “Slut, go fetch a collar and leash.”

When Becky returns, Mistress Gemma orders her to collar me. I feel the leather band tight and cool around my neck.

Suddenly, Mistress Gemma raises her foot and gives me a swift kick in the side, I roll over onto my back, slightly winded.

Lying there, I look up at the fat woman standing over me. She’s holding the end of my leash in one hand, the riding crop in the other. I see the underside of her belly, her gorgeous tits above it. I can also see just far enough up her skirt to tell she’s not wearing underwear.

Then she unbuttons the skirt and lets it fall. It narrowly misses my face. She snaps her fingers, points down and says to Becky, “Fold that under Sally’s head.” Becky hurries to comply. Then Mistress Gemma kneels down, her legs astride my head. Her wet, hairy cunt and big, fat arse dominate my vision. I can smell her sweat. I can smell her lust. I know what’s about to happen. I’m scared, but I’m also eager to please her.

In school, Gemma Weston had a name which people sometimes called her – but only ever behind her back. Even then, they usually said it very quietly and looked over their shoulders before they did so. The name was ‘Gemma Weighs-a-ton’. Once, I saw another girl in Gemma’s year call her that to her face. In response, Gemma kicked the girl’s legs out from under her and sat on her head. Seeing that back then had given me a funny feeling which I didn’t fully understand. Now, of course, I understand.

I take a deep breath, close my eyes and whimper softly – as big, fat Gemma Weston sits down on my face.

I feel my head being squashed hard as it takes Mistress Gemma’s massive weight. I’m grateful for the folded skirt between my head and the concrete. Now my mistress is smothering me with her fat, sweaty arse, and I can’t breathe at all. I feel my mouth pressing into Mistress Gemma’s hairy cunt, I taste her juices flowing between my lips. So I open my mouth and lick eagerly, frantically, desperate to get her off.

My mistress seldom lets me breathe, but I’m grateful when she does – it’s more than I deserve. I’m getting dizzy from lack of oxygen, but it doesn’t matter. All that matters is pleasing Mistress Gemma.

Now Mistress Gemma is stroking my genitals with the tip of her riding crop. I’m grateful for the touch, grateful for her teasing me like this. I hear her give Becky another command, but from down here, disoriented and squashed under Mistress Gemma’s enormous rump, I can’t make it out.

I feel Becky’s hands grip my ankles. She pulls my legs wide apart. Then THWACK! My inner thigh is suddenly on fire. I let out a heavily muffled scream, I thrash around and kick my legs, but Becky manages to hold me. I instinctively try to move my head, but Mistress Gemma reasserts her dominance by shifting her weight from side to side a few times. Reminded of my place, I submit at once and go back to licking.

THWACK! This time I take the blow with passive acceptance. My leg jerks a little, but Becky holds it.

I continue to eagerly pleasure Mistress Gemma as she casually rains blows on my inner thighs. All I can think about is how strong she is, and how right it feels to be serving her like this.

Eventually Mistress Gemma stops hitting me. I feel her body stiffen and she starts riding hard against my face. She’s grunting and moaning loudly. Then she cums in gushing waves that drench my face, running across my cheeks and down my throat. I feel blissfully happy that I’m able to pleasure her like this, and so grateful that she let me.

I feel Mistress Gemma sag contentedly, crushing my head again. I can’t breathe at all, and she’s not moving. She’s still not moving… there’s light swimming behind my eyes, my head is a dull, pulsating blob, my chest is crumpling up like a crisp packet. But I don’t have the strength to move. I submit to Mistress Gemma’s will. I put my life in Mistress Gemma’s hands.

Finally my mistress kneels up, and I gasp in a painful, wheezing breath. The whole room is spinning wildly. I can see again, but everything’s blurry and puckered with black dots. My head is filled with buzzing static.

My mistress grabs me under the arm. Using that and the leash, as she stands, she pulls me up with her. She marches me over to a wide table, near the wall and perpendicular to it. There are two parallel slits running down the middle of the table, almost along the full length of it. In front of the table, against the wall, is a full-length mirror. Beside the table is a black storage box.

Mistress Gemma slams me down onto the table. She crouches and mutters something to Becky, who says, “Yes, Mistress Gemma.” Then Gemma takes some stuff from the box. I feel and hear my ankles being secured to the table legs with plastic ties. Becky grabs something from the box and crawls under the table. I feel her slip a plastic tie through my collar, threading it through the two slits in the table and pulling it tight.

“Look at me,” commands my fat mistress. I whimper, “Yes, Mistress Gemma,” as I raise my head and look into the mirror in front of me. I see myself bent helplessly over the table, with Mistress Gemma standing behind me, towering over me, smirking down at me with contempt. I lift my eyes to meet her dominating gaze, and I feel the power she has over me. I feel myself shrink beneath her unquestionable will. I start whimpering quietly in my throat.

“Aw, Sally,” croons Mistress Gemma, “look at you. I’ve got you bent over a table, you slut.”

I stare up at her helplessly, and whimper a little louder.

“Now, Sally,” Mistress Gemma continues firmly, “even though you’ve been a good girl for me so far, we still have a lot of work left to do. Your training is only just starting. I already have you in my power…”

As she talks, the fat woman pulls a latex glove onto her right hand, yanks it on it tight and lets it snap against her wrist. She clenches her fist, aside from her middle and index fingers, which she holds straight.

“…but no matter how much control I have over you, no matter how obedient you are, I can always break you down further, make you even more pathetically submissive. You can always go deeper. Welcome to the long, dark tunnel, Sally. Welcome to the rest of your life, bitch.”

Now she’s using her other hand to apply Vaseline to her outstretched fingers. My leash is hooked over her wrist.

She wraps the leash around her hand a few times and rests her fist on my lower back, pulling my collar back hard and choking me a little. She leans over me.

“I need you to relax, Sally. A slut like you is bound to enjoy this. Trust me. Just relax…”

I croak, “Yes, Mistress Gemma,” and struggle to breathe in deep, trying to do as I’m told. I force myself to relax, and my body sags against the table.

“Good girl, Sally,” breathes Mistress Gemma. Slowly but forcefully, she pushes her fat, strong fingers into my arse.

I pant and whimper as her fingers slide up inside me, and squirm at the strange, humiliating feeling.

Mistress Gemma presses down with her fingers, feeling for something. Then, finding it, she starts to run the tip of her middle finger around in slow, delicate circles. As her fingers move gently back and forth, and her fingertip moves round and round, I feel slow, aching waves of pleasure suffuse my entire body. My vision goes blurry, I make a funny noise, I can feel myself drooling.

I was still completely dizzy and disoriented from being smothered, even more so now from being choked, so the pleasure sends me spiralling. I feel totally loopy and strung out. I hardly know which way is up.

I hear Mistress Gemma’s voice saying, “Look at me, Sally. Just focus on my eyes.” I hear my own voice respond, “Yes, Mistress Gemma.”

My mistress smiles at me and says, “You know, Sally, with my hand up you like this, and me having total control over you, it’s kind of like you’re my puppet. In fact, you are my puppet – aren’t you? Say it.”

I hear my voice say, “I’m your puppet, Mistress Gemma.”

“That’s right,” she says, “good girl. And you know the thing about puppets, Sally? They’re just objects. They’re just objects that belong to their puppeteer. They have no thoughts, no opinions, no will of their own. They just do whatever their puppeteer makes them do, and that’s it. They’re just dumb instruments of their puppeteer’s will. Otherwise, they’re nothing. And that’s exactly the same for you. I’m your puppeteer, and you only exist to serve my will – that’s it. Without me, you’re nothing – say it.”

“Without you I’m nothing, Mistress Gemma.” And it’s true. I know in my heart it’s true. I’ve never been more convinced of anything.

“Good girl, Sally, that’s right. And do you know why? It’s because I own you now, Sally. You’re my property. Say it.”

“I’m your property, Mistress Gemma.”

“You’re my slave, aren’t you, Sally?”

“I’m your slave, Mistress Gemma.”

“You’ll always obey me, won’t you, Sally?”

“I will always obey you, Mistress Gemma.”

“You live to serve me, don’t you, Sally?”

“I live to serve you, Mistress Gemma.”

“Mmm, that’s a good girl. What a good, little girl you are for Mistress Gemma. My stupid, weak, little puppet, totally unable to resist. My plaything, just a toy for me to use and abuse. My helpless slave-girl, who needs me to tell her what to do.

“Slut, go fetch Sally’s phone,” the fat woman commands Becky.

The kneeling girl trills, “Yes, Mistress Gemma.” She scurries off and quickly returns.

“Give it to her,” Mistress Gemma says. Becky places the phone on the table in front of me.

“Now, kneel behind me and lick my arse,” says the fat woman. Becky squeals, “Yes, Mistress Gemma!” and crawls round behind her.

“Now, Sally,” says my fat mistress, still sliding her fingers gently back and forth inside me, “remember when I used to take your lunch money every day in school, and there was nothing you could do about it? This is going to be like that – except sooo much better. Now pick up your phone and open your banking app.”

“Yes, Mistress Gemma,” I reply without thinking, as I move to obey. There’s a tiny warning light flashing somewhere in the back of my foggy, vacant mind, but it doesn’t seem to connect to anything – my body’s moving of it’s own accord anyway.

“Good girl. Now, Sally, open up your current account – yes, that’s it. Now make a new transfer for the full amount that’s in there, and enter these details…” And she reels off a set of bank details that includes the name ‘Gemma Weston’.

“Good girl, Sally. Now – make the transfer.”

The figure ‘£2984.70’ swims out at me from the screen as my fingers move like clockwork, confirming the order. It seems meaningless.

“Good girl,” my mistress coos smugly when she sees the order is confirmed. She slides her fingers all the way up inside me, right up to the knuckle. I moan like a bitch.

“Now, Sally,” she says, “time for the savings.”

We go through the same process again for my savings account, only this time the amount is much higher. I’ve been scrimping and saving for a few years now, trying to get on the property ladder. This time, the figure displayed on the screen is ‘£22,350.00′.

Even in my delirious state, I feel like this amount is something I should care about. I stare hard at the number on the screen, trying to feel some connection to it, trying to make sense of how it ties in to reality…

Mistress Gemma senses my hesitation. She presses down hard on the spot where she’s been stroking with her fingertip, and I’m subsumed by giddy, helpless, almost painful pleasure.

“Do it, Sally,” she says. “Do it now.”

Moaning loudly, with trembling fingers, I confirm the transfer.

“Good girl,” beams the fat woman triumphantly. “What a helpless, little slut for your mistress. You really are mine now – aren’t you, Sally?”

“Yes, Mistress Gemma!” I moan ecstatically as the movement of her fingers accelerates, and she keeps bearing down with vigour on that special spot to which she’s laid claim.

“That’s right, Sally,” she says, “I own you now. So here’s what’s going to happen: first, you’re going to sell all your possessions and give that money to me as well. Then you’re going to give up your flat and move in here. You’ll live down here in my basement with your little girlfriend – basically, the servants’ quarters. You will keep working to earn money, and every penny you make will go straight to me. When you’re not earning money for me, you will be at my beck and call – cleaning my house, doing my dishes, laundry… you’ll wait on me hand and foot and do whatever I tell you – because, you know, you’re my obedient slave. Right, Sally?”

“Yes – Mis – tress – Gemmaaaaaa,” I whine, cross-eyed and panting.

The fat woman opens her eyes wide and pouts at me, then intones, in a mocking, singsong voice, “Mmm, that’s a good girl, Sally. What a good, little girl for Mistress Gemma.”

With those words, I shudder and explode with a scream as a shockwave of pleasure collapses the room in on itself. I hear something splatter onto the concrete floor under the table.

Now I’m lying limp on the table, spent and gasping for breath, totally unable to move, as Mistress Gemma slides her fat fingers out of me.

As I close my eyes, I think about how strong and beautiful Mistress Gemma is – and how grateful I am that she found me again.

———————————————————————–

Fortunately, I’ve just finished waxing the wooden coffee table in the main living room as I hear Mistress Gemma’s Jeep pulling into the driveway. I rush to put the cleaning supplies away. I run through to the grand, stylish atrium – Mistress Gemma has a very big, very nice, very expensive house – and kneel to one side of the front door. Becky arrives in the same hurried manner and kneels on the other side.

We’re both dressed identically in skimpy maid costumes, with extremely short, frilly skirts, and black leather collars. Underneath our skirts, both of us are wearing a butt plug with a bright pink thong stretched over it.

We both have hair dyed platinum blonde and cut in a feminine style. Mine’s not shoulder-length yet, but it’ll get there. We’re both wearing heavy, whorish make up, long fake lashes and neon pink lipstick. Both of our bodies are waxed virtually hairless.

As we hear our mistress approach, we both prostrate ourselves on the floor, with our arms outstretched.

Mistress Gemma enters and closes the door behind her. I hear some clothing fall to the floor, then she clips a leash to my collar. She pulls me towards her, so I raise my head. She’s got Becky leashed too.

Standing up straight between us, legs a little apart and naked from the waist down, she says, “Sally, lick my arse.”

I reply, “Yes, Mistress Gemma.” I crawl forward eagerly and kneel behind her. I use my hands to ease her huge buttocks apart. I press my face deep into her sweaty crack, tongue outstretched, and do as I’ve been commanded.

Then she says to Becky, “Lick my cunt, slut.”

I hear Becky say, “Yes, Mistress Gemma.”

After letting us worship her for some time with our tongues, Mistress Gemma pulls us both away from her body using the leashes. She starts across the atrium and we crawl obediently behind her.

She leads us over to the plush chaise longue underneath the elegant curved staircase running around the edge of the room. The chaise has its back at the end pointing away from the upper landing, and a curved arm covering half of the long side towards the wall.

She snaps her fingers at Becky, points at the floor in front of the chaise, at the end with the arm, and says, “Seat position.”

Becky replies, “Yes, Mistress Gemma,” and at once crawls forward and sits down on the floor with her legs spread, her shoulders against the edge of the seat and her head leaning back onto it.

Mistress Gemma steps forward and climbs up onto the chaise. She kneels with her legs astride Becky’s upturned face, grasping the arm at the back with both hands. Then she sits down on Becky’s face, and the girl happily continues servicing her cunt.

The fat woman tugs at my leash and says, “Get back down there, Sally.” I hurriedly exclaim, “Yes, Mistress Gemma!” and crawl forward as quickly as I can. I kneel between Becky’s splayed legs and within moments my tongue is once again squirming around in Mistress Gemma’s arsehole.

The three of us are there for more than half an hour. Mistress Gemma cums three times.

Then our fat mistress stands up and leads us down to the basement.

Soon I’m lying back in a modified gynaecologist’s chair, my wrists bound to the arms with leather cuffs and my legs up in the stirrups, bound in a similar manner. The stirrups are locked wide apart, splaying my legs as wide as they’ll go. I’m naked now, aside from the thong and butt plug.

Mistress Gemma is standing between my legs, towering over me and looking down at me with a cruel, contemptuous smile. I gaze up at her with blithe adoration. Mistress Gemma is now naked too, aside from the girthy, ten-inch, black strap-on she’s wearing.

Our mistress looks at Becky, who’s standing beside the head of the chair, and says, “Slut, stuff Sally’s mouth.”

Becky, who’s still wearing her maid costume, says, “Yes, Mistress Gemma.” She takes the long, thick dildo she’s holding in her hand, and gently slides it into my open mouth. I obligingly start sucking.

The fat woman sneers down at me and says, “Mmm, that’s a good, little whore. You love having a mouthful of cock, don’t you, Sally?”

I love whatever Mistress Gemma tells me to love. With Becky now sliding the dildo deeper, down into my throat, I open my mouth wider and choke out, “Yoh, Moh-twoh Yoh-moh!”

Mistress Gemma laughs and says, “Good girl.” I love that my answer pleased her. I whimper happily and, without breaking eye contact, resume sucking.

Now Mistress Gemma eases the pink thong down my thighs a little. They’re stretched tight between my wide open legs. She takes hold of the butt plug and slowly starts easing it out of my arse. I moan like a bitch as she does so.

The fat woman sets the butt plug aside on a small table. Then she starts lubing up her giant cock. She says, “Now, Sally, are you ready to be fucked in your tight, little pussy?”

Still with a cock down my throat, I splutter, “Yoh, Moh-twoh Yoh-moh!”

Mistress Gemma sneers. “Oh, Sally, you can do better than that, you horny slut! I want to hear you beg for my cock.”

I plead like a desperate nympho – and though it comes out extremely garbled, I think the message is clear.

Mistress Gemma laughs again, and says, “You know, it’s really pathetic, Sally, what a slut you are for my cock, how desperate you are to be fucked. You’re such a weak, insatiable, little whore. But I suppose, since you begged, I’ll be kind and fuck you – though why I should do a worthless loser like you any favours is beyond me.”