Picture this, a decaying manor house, grimly clinging to its former grandeur, standing isolated deep in the English countryside, and inside it a dominatrix called Wanda blew smoke rings and admired her skinny behind in the full length mirror nailed to the wall of her modest dressing room. Touching six feet in heels, late twenties, Wanda was a pale beauty with exquisite features, tall and willowy, hardly any tits, with her long black hair tied up into a bun, smokey eyes and crimson lips. She looked good, and felt hungry to inflict pain. Her pussy was already tingling at the thought of splitting flesh with her bullwhip, making the little bitch down in the dungeon squeal for mercy. The boxy windowless room, lit gloomily by a low watt bulb, was sparsely furnished and carpet less, containing a solid oak chest of drawers, crammed with bondage clothing, make up and sex toys, with an armless office swivel chair pushed against it. Mozart’s ‘Requiem’ played tinnily on a pair of little speakers connected to her smartphone, helping Wanda focus on the rituals of degradation she was to perform. She stubbed out her cigarette and checked her outfit, pleased with her minimalist choice of wet look leather thigh high boots with kinky heels, black studded body harness with straps covering her nipples with matching waist band and leather garter. The sound of footsteps on the stairs broke her self-absorption. A hard rap on the door.
“Mistress Wanda, it is midnight,” came the gruff voice of the Servant.
Wanda picked up her bullwhip and cracked it in front of the mirror, feeling her power, heels clicking on the concrete floor as she turned and headed for the door.
The cellar was dank and cavernous, used formerly to house a wine collection it had been transformed into an ersatz torture chamber, with a pillory, a wooden framework to secure head and hands mounted on a steel post drilled into the concrete floor, the centrepiece of the makeshift dungeon. Next to it a robust oak table covered with assorted BDSM paraphernalia including bondage mitts and cuffs, nipple clamps, speculums, floggers, butt plugs, spanking paddles and a strap on dildo. Some of the items were still covered with the shit, piss and blood of their previous victims. The cellar was atmospherically lit by half a dozen candelabras, whose long candles had been assiduously set alight by the Servant. A squat, bulky and powerful man with a shaven head, dressed in a white shirt with a Windsor cut and black tie, blood flecked white gloves, grey waistcoat and black trousers, the Servant had worked up a sweat preparing the Slave for Mistress Wanda and he had rolled his sleeves up his beefy arms.
“You have prepared the chamber well,” said Wanda, her accent cut glass aristocratic, honed at stage school years a decade earlier.
“Thank you ma’am,” said the Servant bowing.
She pointed the bullwhip at his bare arms, regarding him disdainfully, “I appreciate the prepping can be arduous, but really we must preserve our standards…”
“The paddle Miss?” asked the Servant hopefully.
Wanda rolled her eyes back theatrically, “Of course…”
The Servant shuffled over to the table and picked up a studded wooden paddle which he obsequiously presented to his Mistress.
“Well hold this,” Wanda said irritably, holding the bullwhip out. ‘And assume the position.”
The Servant took the whip and meekly bent over. Mistress Wanda gave his buttocks one mighty thwack, eliciting a moan that ended with a prolonged ‘Ooh…’
“That was a rather camp ebullition,” said Wanda, arching an eyebrow as they exchanged whip and paddle.
“Go and tidy yourself up. Return promptly in 30 minutes with a cup of Earl Grey.”
“Yes ma’am. Thank you ma’am.”
Mistress Wanda dismissed him with a waft of her free hand. She watched him ascend the stairs and exit out the cellar door. Now for the Captive, groaning on the far side of the chamber. She picked up a candelabrum and went over to meet the flesh.
The Captive was secured to a wooden St Andrew’s cross attached to the far wall, standing on the balls of his feet and facing frontwards in an x shaped position as leather wrist and ankle restraints dug into his meat, moaning softly and rendered mute by a ball gag the Servant had tightened into place. He was an unremarkable and hairy middle aged man running to fat with thinning blonde hair parted at the side. Mistress Wanda stood before him, bullwhip in one hand, candelabra in the other, her repulsion evident as she appraised him.
“Eeww.”
Antipathy wrinkling her perfect visage, Wanda coldly stated, “I am the hammer, you are the anvil.” She flicked his uncircumcised half hard cock with the bullwhip.
“You really are a ghastly little specimen.”
Wanda carefully placed the candelabra down to the side of the Captive so he was clearly lit and dropped the bullwhip on his feet. She took a candle and held the flame near the tip of his cock, just close enough so he feels intense heat but it doesn’t burn his cock. The Captive tried to cross his legs but succeeded only in pointing his knees at each other. Madame Wanda’s derisive laughter echoed around the chamber.
“I’m the best in breed, you know, and here I am with a frightful little commoner for company,” breathed Wanda into his ear.
“I’m beautiful aren’t I, almost flawless. Wouldn’t you love to kiss these full red lips,” said Wanda, licking his cheek and tasting a mix of cologne and moisturiser. The Captive shakes his head obediently, fear and excitement coalescing to create a curiously glazed expression.
“Kisses, bitch,” said Wanda, dripping candle wax onto his chest. She grabbed his cock.
“Aw, little man is hard,” said Wanda, gently masturbating his cock. The Captive looked dreamy eyed, at least until Wanda stretched his cock and trickled wax droplets on it. Eyes popping out of his head, the Captive gave an animalistic grunt. Wanda blew the candle out.
“Now where should I put this?” said Wanda, smearing wax on the Captive’s face. She jammed the candle halfway up his ass which made the Captive piss a bit; Madame Wanda took a burst on her smooth milky thighs. Recoiling, Madame Wanda spat in his face and uttered, “Scum.”
The saliva dripped from his eyebrows
“You’d love to lick that up wouldn’t you, sewer cunt.”
Madame Wanda picked up the bullwhip and retreated a few steps.
“You’re such a piece of shit; I cannot, even though I should, refer to you as my slave.”
She cracked the whip expertly; it had a relatively short thong measuring four feet, and the shock of the sonic boom made the Captive stiffen. The thong just missed his balls.
“The bullwhip originated as a pastoral tool,” said Wanda. “To keep cattle in line. In some ways this is a family heirloom,” said Wanda, almost wistful. She raised the whip and watched the Captive flinch in anticipation. Wanda was amused by this, suppressing her giggles as she shakily raised the whip. Then out of nowhere, crack, she flailed the whip and the thong split open his chest. Wanda stood frozen as she surveyed the deep weal leaking blood, the Captive annihilated but alert enough to sense Madame was surprised by the damage. She dropped the whip and approached him. They stood there staring into each other’s eyes and finally Madame Wanda felt connected, she stroked his face tenderly and whispered, “Slave.”
Madame licked up some blood from his chest and kissed his forehead, the blood mixing with the spit from before and running down his face. Wanda went down on her knees and breathed on his balls. Licking his cock, Wanda gathers his balls in one hand, the Captive writhing and shoving his cock in her face. Wanda bit his ball sac, not hard enough to break the skin but enough to engender a strangulated whimper. Wanda pulls the candle out of his arse and stands upright, scrutinising the mucus speckled with shit.
“I’d like to shove this down your throat but you’d whine like a bitch if I ungagged you. I’m not into a dialogue with a lump of faecal matter.” Wanda smeared the ass mucus on his face. This seemed to amuse the Captive despite his deprivations, his cheeks jiggling around the ball gag. Madame Wanda’s eyes burned red, incandescent with fury she stormed over the table and returned to the Captive with a pair of nipple clamps, two bull clips attached together with a chain. She attached the bull clips to his nipples and yanked hard. The Captive’s eyes rolled back, finding the pain exquisite. Wanda gave another couple of tugs and he twisted and turned like rag doll idly tossed around by a kid.
“So you think you are hardcore, eh, pig twat.”
There was a knock on the cellar door.
“Ah, refreshments. Enter.”
The Servant clumped down the stairs holding a silver tray, on which was a pot of Earl Grey tea, two china cups and a jug of milk. Dutifully he poured his mistress a cup.
She accepted it and sipped it cautiously; noticing the Servant had rolled his sleeves down and secured the cuffs with a lovely pair of gold cufflinks she had presented him with, almost a year to the day, for his loyal and proficient service. Mistress possessed the common touch.
“Excellent Milton, delicious and piping hot. Maybe our guest would like a drink.”
The Servant smiled broadly, “A splash of milk ma’am?”
“I am nothing but merciful.”
The Servant poured a cup and added a splash of milk. Wanda drained her cup and picked up the other.
“This will help revive you, a good old English cuppa.’
Wanda dipped his cock and balls into the brew and it was as if she had delivered an electric shock, the Captive stiffened, every sinew taut, head stretching upwards and his bowels emptying. Wanda observed the excrement hitting the floor with horrified fascination. The Servant looked on blankly; he’d seen it all before.
“Well,” said Wanda, “This is all getting rather distasteful. If only Marge was here, she would….elaborate. Scat is certainly not my bag. Never mind dear, what’s past is prologue. We begin again.”
Wanda kissed the Captive absently on the cheek and turned to the Servant, “Milton, you need to muck out the stable later.”
The Servant assented with a bow.
“Wipe the creature down and stick him in the pillory,” Madame Wanda was at the table, rummaging in a cosmetics bag. She dug out a lipstick and compact mirror.
“If he gets uppity yank his tit chain,” offered Madame.
The Servant undid the Captive’s restraints and he flopped to the floor like a puppet whose strings have been snipped.
“Crawl to the pillory, dog. On all fours like the bitch you are.”
She stuck the toe of a boot up his arse crack to guide him on the way. The Servant picked him up easily and secured his head and wrists in the pillory.
“Face down, ass up. What a sorry fucking spectacle you present. “
Mistress Wanda inspected him contemptuously with narrowed eyes.
“Milton, be a darling and give his arse a wipe, there’s some wet wipes on the table, just get the shit off and dab a bit of blood on,” said Wanda.
The Servant began his task.
“Leave them on the tray I know someone on craigslist who’ll buy them. You’ll be off to the post office with the old jiffy bags again.”
For a second Milton’s loyally sombre demeanour seemed to waver, offering a glimmer of a puzzled reaction shot, but he quickly knuckled down and cleaned the Captive to Madame’s satisfaction.
“Milton, go and wait outside the door. We are at the beginning of the end.”
The Servant nodded and ascended the stairs, crunching the door shut behind him.
“I do wish he wouldn’t bloody slam it,” said Madame Wanda irritably.
“Just I and you again, how the mighty fall, here I am, reduced to working with a recycled turd like your good self.”
Wanda lazily drew the word ‘bitch’ on his forehead in pink lipstick and loosed freezing laughter that resonated within the chamber.
“Look at you. Not quite the big man now are we.”
She showed the Captive his reflection in the mirror. He seemed oddly pleased by it, which irked Wanda and provoked a casual cruelty. Wanda held his nose between thumb and forefinger and watched his face go blue and felt her pussy moisten at the terror in his eyes that seemed eager to slide down his checks like so much melting wax. She released his nose and the Captive snorted air greedily. Wanda delivered a crisply executed slap across his face, startling the Captive and making him piss again, the blow hard enough to mark his left cheek. She turned her attention to his other end, lipsticking ‘SL’ on one arse cheek and ‘UT’ on the other.
“If only your mother could see you now,” mused Wanda. “I’m sure she’d be overwhelmed with pride.’ She picked up a spanking paddle and delivered a ferocious blow to his buttocks, then followed it with four more in swift succession. Wanda stepped back to admire the results of the thrashing, “Your arse is red raw, dear boy.”
Wanda sensed the Captive was near the cosmic connection extreme ritualistic pain and controlled humiliation compelled, spent physically his mind was lost to the stars, time to gently guide him home, to engineer a conclusion. She lubed his anus and slid a butt pug in, playfully wiggling. No real rough stuff now. His cock was rock hard, mind annihilated. Wanda put on her vampire gloves; black leather with metal tacks set into the fingertips, and dragged them slowly down his backs.
“Giving you goosebumps, baby,” breathed Wanda into his ear. She stood behind the Captive and reached around, wanking his prick with her right hand and massaging his balls with her left. Wanda knew silence was what he needed now, to fully process the pleasure after all the pain, to reconnect with the self through orgasm. Wanda felt his balls tighten and gripped his cock hard, masturbating it faster. The Captive was mewling softly and thrusting his cock and then it was all over, three hot spurts as he convulsed. Wanda clocked the decent wad of semen on the concrete floor and thought of another potential craigslist post.
“Milton,” screamed Madame Wanda.
Madame Wanda stepped out of the shower feeling cleansed and half human again. After towelling her hair dry, she slipped into a thigh length cream robe and flopped on the bed. Wanda was always drained after a session but the ridiculous midnight start time the Client had stipulated meant she could barely keep her eyes open as the clock edged towards two in the morning. He must have a gothic streak or it possessed something psychologically symbolic for him concluded Wanda. The Client had paid extra and handsomely for the late commencement of activities and in full up front, a stipulation of Wanda’s to avoid any awkwardness when the act was consummated. He had expressed immense satisfaction with the experience, telling her, once Milton had removed the ball gag, that it had been a mind blowing, transcendent experience and she was the greatest dominatrix he had known, and he had met many. Wanda had accepted the compliment with customary grace and self-deprecation. She had stuck to the bullet pointed notes he had emailed her beforehand scrupulously, with only a few minor deviations, necessary to instil genuine fear and gratitude for mercy, the main one dunking his nuts and balls in a cup of char. Wanda flopped on the bed. The Client was tucked up snugly in one of the guest bedrooms. She knew nothing about him, aside from he was high up in the oil industry and he was loaded. They had to be, you needed serious coin to secure Wanda’s bespoke services. Wanda needed them to be as anonymous as possible so she could treat them in the abstract, like the corporeal commodities they were. Milton had patched the Client’s wounds up, run him a hot bath, got him settled. The Client had declined the offer of beer and sandwiches, instead necking a large brandy and quickly drifting into a deep sleep. In the morning Wanda would breakfast with the Client, no doubt he would be urbane and charming, they usually always were, and after he had finished his buttered kippers and grapefruit Milton would drive the client to the train station in the silver Rolls Royce Phantom VI her father bequeathed to her. All part of the bullshit experience. Wanda yawned and turned off the bedside lamp, forsaking her usual nightcap of large gin and tonic and a cigarette through sheer tiredness and lay staring into the darkness, trying not to think about how genuine fear in the eyes of her Captives really made her wet, how one day she might just…Wanda pushed the thoughts away, selecting something lighter to ruminate on till the blackness swallowed her. One thing that had sincerely perplexed and amused her earlier was the first words the Client had uttered when Milton removed his ball gag. After gulping air, the Captive had asked, ‘Who is Marge?”
“Marge,” Wanda had replied, torching a cigarette, “Is a very dirty girl.”
Smiling to oneself, Wanda allowed the night to soak her up, and she enjoyed the sweetest of dreams, her heels clicking in phantom recesses.