No Holiday at the Beach Ch. 6

XV. Dressed

He had never put on women's clothing before. He was unsure where to start. The white garter, he supposed. As he was pulling it up to his waist, and ascertaining exactly how it worked, Mistress Wendy pulled the camera over towards the bed.

"You love the little outfit I've brought you, don't you slut," she said.

"Yes, Mistress," he said, "I hardly deserve it."

"Tell me, how do you like the feel of the stockings?"

He was then just rolling the stockings up his leg. He spoke the truth when he said, "They feel great, Mistress. So soft. Such a sensation on my legs." Indeed, they did feel soft and almost soothing on his welt-stained legs.

He next slid on the white silk panties, then fastened the stockings to the garter. He got that right. His penis, long dormant from the pain, stirred against the wonderful fabric of the panties. He returned to full erection, and the tip of his penis poked up through the waistband. He wondered, "Now what? The soft, black maid's dress?" She again read his doubting mind.

"The shoes. Put on the shoes," she said. His toes stung as he plunged them into the patent leather, long-heeled shoes. The shoes each had a strap above the ankle. Mistress Wendy locked each strap with tiny padlocks. "Walk a bit for me, whore," said. "Frolic for the camera."

His toes screamed with pain as he stepped to the floor. He wobbled, then began some tentative steps. "Sashe, damn it. You love it and you know it," she said. "Walk. Strut you stuff, you slut." She slapped his ass playfully.

He quickly, if inelegantly, started to stroll back and forth before the bed—and the camera. His calves and lower back started aching, merging with the increasing pain in his toes. "Shake it," Mistress said, "Bend over and shake your booty."

Despite the pain and humiliation, he was remarkably responsive. He did as his Mistress demanded without pause. He leaned against the bed for support and swirled his buttocks. "Spread those cheeks," she said, and so he did. His toes, calves and lower back were in agony. God he hated those shoes.

She next grabbed a beer from the mini-bar. Mistress Wendy said, "Open wide." He did so. She dropped the tiny key to the padlocks of the ankle straps deep back on his tongue, splashed some beer in his mouth and, pressing his jaws closed, said, "Swallow hard, bitch." She shook his head and he gulped deeply. "Those shoes and hose will come off maybe tomorrow," she said, "If you are lucky and pass the key and find it in the morning. Maybe I can help you with that," she added. "Not the finding, the passing..."

She slapped his buttocks and said, "You finish prettying yourself up, honey, I've got to change."

He watched her incredible black vision pass through the door into the other unit. Somehow he still craved whatever attention she might give him. His thoughts then turned to "prettying himself up." As he put on the remainder of the French maid's uniform, the black dress with shoulder straps and a tiny white apron, he tried not to think about searching for the key in the morning, nor how she might help "the passing." He tried, too, as well as he could, not to think of the pain in his toes. Instead, he focused on what an incredible woman his Mistress was, and how much he longed to please her.

XVI. Threatened

He was leaning back against the side of the bed, almost sitting on its edge, trying to keep his weight off his feet, trapped as they were in the painful high-heeled shoes. The door between Sundown A and B burst open and Mistress Wendy stormed into the room.

"You begged me to fuck you?" she roared. "I'm going to rape you, pretty boy. Get used to it."

She presented a new vision in black. Her hair was tied in a tight knot behind her head, with a loose strand hanging down her forehead, and another gracing the side of her face. A tight, jet-black tee shirt, black boots, this time thick and short heeled. Tight black straight-legged Levis, worn over the boots. She looked lovely still, but extremely threatening. He noticed the large bulge in the crotch of her jeans, pressing against her zipper right up to the unfastened front button. But mostly he noticed the long straight-edged razor she brandished.

In a flash she was behind him, cupping his mouth in her free, left hand and pinching his nostrils shut with her fingers. With her right hand, she pressed the dull side of the razor against his throat. Shocked, he gulped for air, but only vainly sucked the heel of her hand. She held him before the full-length mirror and pressed her crotch against his ass.

"You're going to do exactly as I say. If you don't..." she slowly rotated the blade so the sharp edge approached his throat. He could see it clearly in the mirror and there was no need for her to complete her sentence or the rotation of the blade, which would have, at least, cut him for sure. He knew.

"Rape. It excites you, doesn't it," she said. "I suppose you have fantasized about it." In fact, the whole concept of rape appalled him. It was completely against his nature. He had two friends who admitted to having been raped, and he had wept for them and the unspeakable violation they suffered. Still, despite all that, he could not deny he had sometimes read of rapes, both play and real, and fantasized about it. Appalling and unthinkable, but in some way exciting in the darkest corner of his submissive mind.

Similarly, he had on occasion viewed pictures of beautiful Asian women with strap-ons, and fantasized being ravished by them. But in fact when with a clearer head he thought of someone sticking something up his anus, he imagined it sickening, painful and anything but sexually stimulating. The same with wearing women's clothing. It was the idea, not the reality, that had brought him to this spot.

But this was all too real. He wanted to be home in bed, never having known the pain of the beatings and the humiliations he had already suffered. But things were completely out of his control. He was now convinced his Mistress was crazy, and he might well die if he did not do as he was told. In short, this was rape, although he was not entirely innocent. He put himself in this position. His thoughts now turned to survival.

"I'm going to release your mouth now," she said, "You had better not scream." His pleading eyes said "yes, let me breath." She slowly released her hand from his mouth and pulled hard on the hair on the back of his head. The sharp edge of the blade moved with the jerks of his throat as he gasped for air. "Are you with me?" she asked. He could barely voice his consent. She rotated the sharp edge of the blade away from his throat and said, "All right."

She pushed him harshly backwards onto the bed. His head smacked into the headboard. "Spread your legs, slut, I'm going to tie you up." He did so, quickly, and his legs lay limply sprawled on the bed. Mistress Wendy took some lengths of cotton rope. She wrapped them several times around each ankle. Spreading each leg tight, she tied the rope-ends to the corner bedposts. Without saying more, and with no resistance on his part, she pulled his arms up behind him, tied his wrists together, and tied them off on the middle of the headboard. Her every action was rough, carrying an unspoken threat that cowered him further.

With her back to him, she sat down straddling his chest. She hummed a bit of a tune he could not quite place as she slowly slit open his panties then slid the razor under the waistband and made a neat cut. She slid the razor under his back and cut the waistband of the panties once again. She yanked the shredded panties off. She stood, turned, and sat roughly on his stomach. She leaned over and kissed him. It was a kiss loaded with passion, but devoid of affection. He wished to pull away from the mouth he once craved for, but of course he couldn't, and wouldn't have if he could. She finally pulled off and stared into his eyes.

"I think you know better than to scream, but I'm afraid you might not be able to help yourself," she said, with a sinister laugh. "Chew on these." With that, she stuffed the panties in his mouth. She resumed her former position sitting with her back to him and placed the sharp edge of the razor against the base of his scrotum. "It is time to make a real lady out of you."

Mortified, he wanted to struggle, but dared not. Not with the blade placed where it was.

"You want to be a lady, now, don't you?" she asked, he thought, rhetorically. She spun and lunged onto his stomach, taking his wind. She put the knife to his throat and asked again, "You want to be a lady, don't you? You were just begging me a moment ago."

He shook his head madly and sobbed behind the panty gag, "No, please don't don't. Please..." The sound was completely muffled, but his meaning was clear enough.

"What?" she screamed, slapping him hard across the face. "Now you don't want to be my little slut? You're making crazy—and very angry. So, what is it you want? You want to be cut here?" she asked as she pressed the dull edge of the blade against his throat, "or down there?" gesturing behind her where his exposed manhood lay. "Decide now. Which will it be?"

She slapped him again, and yanked the balled panties from his mouth. Freed from the gag, he still could not speak. He was frozen with terror, and could only manage little gasps.

"Jesus," she said in disgust, "you're not just a whore and a slut, you're biggest whimp I've ever seen. I guess I'll have to decide for you."

She stuffed the panties back in his mouth. She was turning her back to him again when she stopped. "I can't stand that pitiful look in your eyes, bitch."

She got up and went to the other unit. In her absence he pulled mightily against the bonds on his ankles and wrists. That only seemed to tighten their hold. In a panic, he yanked at the bonds, virtually trying to throw himself against them in effort to flee. After a few moments he collapsed, helpless and defeated. She returned to the room with the pantyhose she had been wearing in the afternoon. She pressed them against his mouth and nose, at the same time stopping his breath and filling his senses with the souring smell of her afternoon juices. She pulled the hose over his head, and then, as best as he could tell, she wrapped and tied the legs around his head and over his eyes. "That's better," she said.

He heard her as she left the room briefly. He made one last, vain, almost token, effort to try to wriggle or pull himself free.

XVII. Close Shave

She returned and again sat heavily on his stomach. He could not see, but he knew her back was to him. He felt the cold steel of the blade at the base of his scrotum. She traced the half circle there, then squeezed his balls and pulled up. He was screaming in pain and terror, but only muffled sounds came through the gag and pantyhose mask. He felt his scrotum being pulled back towards his belly, then a warm liquid spread over his crotch. He nearly passed out, but was denied that exit. At least, he thought, he had gone numb not long after she first squeezed and lifted his balls. He could feel almost nothing where he was sure his balls had been. He figured he now had nothing. Next he heard a harsh scraping sound, and last the sound of tape, hospital tape he knew. Then he felt a hard pulling and pressing in his crotch.

That was it. He felt her rise from his stomach and sensed her standing beside the bed.

"Oh, what happened to my pretty boy?" she asked. "Lost something, I see. At least he's—it's—more ladylike," she said, laughingly fiendishly. "Well, he begged me to be his French maid, and he thought just a maid's outfit would do."

There was something terribly mad in her referring to him in the third person. Like she was totally crazy, and what he had been longer existed. He struggled yet again against his bonds, and raised his head to look at what once had been his manhood. Of course, his pantyhose mask and blindfold kept him from seeing, but his terrified need to know required at least the effort.

"I wonder. If I remove the gag, will his—its—voice squeak? If it's a soprano? He was Tony, now he's Antoinette. Lost his head, as it were." Again the awful laugh He believed that her terrible deed had even driven her fully mad. Like another personality was taking over.

Suddenly she pulled the pantyhose hood from his head. He was staring straight at what once had been. What he saw, was a hard ball of hospital tape and gauze. He noticed he was also cleanly shaven.

She again had the blade at his throat, but somehow this hardly phased him. "You spineless, stupid cunt. So worried about a shave and a wrapping. Did you think I could rape you while you had a hard on flopping about?" He was still gagged, but she added, "Don't answer."

She again straddled him on the stomach, this time facing him and looking deep into his eyes. "Not that I wouldn't cut your balls off. I want to, really. You deserve it. But if you cooperate now, I won't have to. I'm about to rape you so hard you will wish I had simply cut your throat. And I want to hear your ridiculous little moans. I want to hear you begging me to stop, telling me what a slut you are. That you want to be my girlfriend. I want to hear you suffer. I want you to give me a blowjob like the wildest blowjob you've ever imagined. Not because you want to, but because you have to. I want to fuck your mouth. So, I need to take that gag out. If you scream for help, don't think I won't use the blade. And this time it won't be for a simple shave."

"Are you with me?" she asked. His eyes locked with hers. His eyes were speaking. They said, "I'm with you. I have no choice." They said, "I believe you are crazy and I just want to get through this somehow." They said, "God, I'm frightened. Please don't rape me. But don't kill me. Don't castrate me. I'll do anything to survive."

She rather slowly pulled down her zipper. A large black strap-on sprung from her pants. It was maybe seven inches long, thick and firm, but not completely rigid. It scared the daylights out of him.

She again asked, "Are you with me?"

He hesitated and nodded his assent.

To be continued...