The Prankster Ch. 02

"I'll be missed."

"I doubt it. Today excuses of ill health will do. Later your passport will travel back to the UK without you. You will stay here with me, while I turn you into an obedient, submissive slave girl."

"I'm a man, not a girl."

The dominatrix leapt from the bed screaming, "You will address me as Mistress, maggot! Six lashes! On your stomach, spread your legs." She pulled the covers from the bed, and he reflexively curled into a ball.

"On your stomach, spread your legs, now. Or it'll be twelve lashes, you pathetic boy child."

Terrified, John remained curled up, knees to chin. A stinging lash of the whip caught his exposed scrotum, and John screamed in pain.

"I don't start the count until you assume the position, cockroach. Twelve now, twenty-four if you make me wait for another second!"

John uncurled and assumed the required pose. No doubt about it. He had made a very serious mistake.

Slut delved deep with her tongue into Mistress' pussy. As the only thing, bar the residual hint of bile on her feeding tube, that Slut actually got to taste, she was learning to view this task as a special treat.

Master had been gone two weeks now, and if Slut were honest with herself, she was not missing him. When alone in her bondage, this had initially bothered her. But her life was so full, with so much sex, that it was only at the end of each day when she was sealed in the vacuum bed, that she had time to realise it had been another day without him.

The steel collar had proven to be a perfect fit, though very tight. Slut had initially been dismayed at just how tight it was but was now forced to admit she loved the inflexible, constant grasp it had on her throat. Mistress had been very forthright as she had locked it in place.

"Let's stop fucking around here, slave. You were born to wear this collar. So consider this. I intend to keep you locked in a collar permanently, regardless of your Master's views. You are the most natural-born submissive I have ever met. I know why you are dressed in latex and kneeling there. But to me, that is immaterial. No matter what Sally says, or your Master, I am keeping you enslaved. If your Master disagrees, I'll take you away from him. Do you understand me, slave?"

Slut had nodded as her emotions boiled at the declaration. What shocked Slut most was she was both aroused and pleased. A life sentence of bondage ought to produce feelings of horror and revulsion. Her feet were aching in the insane boots, and her whole body was encased in cloying latex. Every orifice was stuffed and distended with phallic intruders, and sweat pooled under her restrictive rubber skin. Yet Slut felt joy to be told of her Mistress's intentions. At that moment, she knew she would leave Master if he just wanted to be John. Slut knew she needed to be enslaved. That the steel around her throat was in the right place.

Slut diverted her attention to her owner's clitoris. Working by touch and taste, Slut tweaked the ring set in Mistress' hood with her tongue, before sucking on the engorged and pert bud of her love. Her love. Slut could begin to admit that to herself too. Slut yearned to tell her owner. But instead worked diligently to bring her owner to orgasm.

John stared into the mirror agast. His life had descended into a pure nightmare. He was truly scared that he would never escape the clutches of the evil woman he now called Mistress. She was in complete control of him, his environment and all the people he now encountered.

She had bound him in the hotel room. Then summoned two henchmen, to place him in a trunk, and transport him to her dungeon. He had not seen the light of day since.

The first week he had been kept nude. A heavy steel collar attached to an equally heavy chain was fastened about his neck. The chain itself was anchored to a staple set in concrete in the centre of the dungeon.

Each morning he was forced to take a cold shower. After which he was routinely raped. Usually by Mistress, with a strap-on, but on other occasions she brought men down to fuck his arse. Often he was bound, but of late he was forced to act out in some parody of lovemaking.

At first, he had been reduced to a sobbing mess at the violation. Now, he was numb to the abuse. A broken shell, obeying as best as he was able. Desperate to avoid punishment.

When he was not being raped he was being forced to learn the language. How to apply makeup, or how to serve his owner. Every aspect of his behaviour was proscribed and judged. How he stood, how he knelt, how he talked and where he looked. To stray from the path of obedience brought down his captor's wrath.

Wrath that was being vented right now. He'd not been, in his owner's opinion, eager enough to swallow the huge fat man's dick when presented to him. Nor had he correctly displayed the man's seed to him, before swallowing the gift.

Thus he was presented with the image in the mirror before him now. A man in bondage. Latex stockings graced his perfectly shaved legs. Impossible five-inch stiletto-heeled pumps on his feet. Along with the ever-present chain from his collar, a lighter one now hung between his freshly pierced nipples. His own, flaccid, penis now sported a Prince Albert piercing. The heavy ring set there was soon to be locked to the matching Guiche piercing. Not that John had thought of, or felt like, masturbating since his enslavement. His arms, bound in a mono-glove, were held high behind his back as he bent forwards in the painful strappado. A ring gag held his mouth open wide. His painted lips formed a crimson circle around his lolling tongue. Mascara streaked his cheeks as tears rolled down his face.

"Good news, Wánjù," declared his captor. "The Brazillian surgeon I told you about arrived this morning."

Groggily, John tried to recall what Mistress may have said about a Brazillian in the past. Before yelping in pain, as the dominatrix thrust a huge syringe into his backside.

"Now," leered his tormentor as she strapped on a huge dildo. "We can start your transformation in earnest."

Slut teetered about the store putting back the garments left in the changing room. Her glistening form, exaggeratedly feminine, glossily corsetted, yet anonymous and almost impersonal, seemed improbably incongruous in the setting of a clothing boutique. Until that is, the viewer noticed that the garments she returned matched her attire in fluidity and lustre.

She was careful to ensure each item was placed facing the correct way and in the correct place. Mistress was a stickler for order and neatness, and Slut had far too many demerits against her name as it was. The crushing corset, and the impossible boots, not to mention the inflated intruders inserted into every orifice, were uncomfortable enough. There was no need to add throbbing, burning welts to the ongoing cacophony of discomfort she endured in her collar.

So far, it had been a fairly ordinary weekday. But Slut knew it was anything but. Because today was hopefully the day she got the all-clear. The last blood test revealed none of the strep infection that had seen her sealed away from the light for eight months now. When that giddy news had come in, she had assumed that she would be released straight away. But the professor had cautioned Mistress to wait for another fortnight and another test. Just to be sure it was not a false negative and that Slut was truly free of the disease.

All that being said Slut was not all that sure how much freedom the all-clear would result in. After the death of John in the air disaster, she committed to be Mistress's slave. The hood may come off, but the collar certainly would not... ever.

What would that be like? Slut could not imagine. Would she be embarrassed without the hood to hide her face? When Mistress took her home in the evening, she walked her to the car on a leash. People stared, but she had been hidden in plain sight. Concealed from view behind a rubber mask. When Mistress used her name in the shop, she had, until now, been an anonymous glossy gimp. In the future, people would be able to make eye contact when she was called by her name. Mistress had promised her that the collared, submissive property of Mistress Victoria, would become internet famous and a household name among fetish initiates.

Would she be allowed to eat? To date, once a day, Mistress had injected a low-volume meal supplement directly down her throat and into her stomach. The only fluids she had been permitted to swallow were her owner's juices during sex.

Would she be allowed to speak? For all the time in Mistress Victoria's collar, Slut had been gagged unless her mouth was in use. Mistress had taught her to sign like a mute person, which effectively she was. Would she be permitted to utter the words she craved to speak? "I love you, Mistress." In truth, Slut had become a recluse. Locked within her latex prison, bar the odd pantomime with a store client, the only soul she communicated with was her owner.

Whatever the future held, one thing Slut knew was that it would be Mistress that would decide. Slut had often spent wakeful hours at night pondering why she was so comfortable with the status quo. The woman she had been, the woman called Angela, would never have been content to let others make the decisions, set the rules, plan the future and meter out discipline.

Yet, for Mistress, Slut was happy with the role of a slave. In fact, happy was not deep enough a word. Content? Slut was not sure how to describe it. Everything was as it should be. There was no stress. All was in order. The collar she wore, heavy polished steel that she could not remove, was in the right place. It may be tight and rigid. It was embarrassing to be led by a leash attached to it. But she was glad it was there proclaiming her the property, the slave, of another.

Slut often wondered what would have happened without the loss of John, her previous love before Mistress. She had loved him almost as much as Mistress, but he had been reluctant to accept Slut's embracing of her submissive self. He had been sent abroad by his firm. Falling ill, he decided to return and boarded the ill-fated flight that went down mid-Pacific. Her heart broke a little when she was told. His body never recovered, a short service had been held, and Slut was named the main beneficiary in his will. Unsure of just what a slave needed possessions for, Slut had signed everything she owned over to her owner.

The garments hung up correctly the slave went over to her corner. She stared into the mirror on the wall before kneeling to ensure she was presentable for Mistress Victoria. Would she recognise herself once the hood was removed?

Wánjù, once again, stared into the mirror and examined the face reflected back. So much had changed. So many procedures. The nose had been reduced massively, and the jawline softened. The brow ridge had been shaved down, and there had been a tracheal shave too. Hours of laser hair removal had removed the need to actually shave. Before everything, before the breast augmentation, the hormone therapy and the voice surgery. That John would have fancied Wánjù.

Wánjù was pretty, slim with a great figure. C-cup breasts with thick pronounced nipples. A narrow waist, after months of waist training in brutal corsetry. A round pert bottom, that Mistress enjoyed spanking so much. Yes, Wánjù was the very image of femininity and sex appeal.

Mistress kept Wánjù in bondage all the time. The steel collar that had initially choked and chaffed was now an ever-present accoutrement that inspired little comment. The cuffs and shackles were similarly ignored. Right now, Wánjù was dressed in a cheongsam of scarlet latex. Wánjù had spent quite some time getting the make-up just so, even ensuring the lip paint matched the rubber dress.

There was just one aspect of Wánjù, that would have drawn John up short. Wánjù still had a penis. Admittedly it was locked up in a chastity device of mirror-bright steel. The entire area had been denuded of hair, and the testes were mere shadows of their former selves. But the last vestige of manhood. The last trace of John was still there.

Mistress had not stopped the gender transformation due to a lack of commitment. Wánjù was just the way she wanted her to be. A beautiful slave girl, with a real cock.

Mistress loved to fuck her slave face to face. Pulling on the rings set in the slave's nipples. Slapping the perfectly made-up face. Kissing the scarlet-painted lips. Taunting the man now trapped in a woman's body.

Wánjù knew she (she thought of herself as a woman now) was enslaved for life. She remembered vividly the day Mistress had told her she was dead. Or, to be accurate, 'John' was dead. She had explained the man using his old passport had perished in an air disaster. Mistress had laughed, exclaiming she could not have planned it better if it had been deliberate rather than serendipitous. All the time, seemingly oblivious to all the other passengers' deaths.

The other slave girls in Mistress' stable all loved Wánjù. Especially they loved it when she played the guitar and sang for them. Mistress also delighted in Wánjù's musical skill. Wánjù had been tasked with teaching some of the other girls to play instruments too. Wánjù had an inkling of what Mistress wanted to achieve with this. Especially when she was told to teach them to play the old Robert Palmer hit Addicted to Love.

Wánjù often wondered what became of Angela. Did she stay with Vicky, the fetish shop owner? Did the two dominatrices let Ange in on the prank he had been playing on her? Was she still dressing up in rubber and having kinky lesbian sex? She hoped Ange was happy now. Given how well-insured he had been, she was at least wealthy now.

Vicky surveyed the shop. All was as it should be, with everything in its place. That even included the slave kneeling obediently in the corner.

Vicky was excited, for today she could finally get the hood off her slave, and look into the girl's eyes when she fucked the bitch. Vicky was certain now if Slut was told the truth, it would not break her training. Slut was totally invested in being her slave.

Vicky herself had taken a lot of convincing Sally's old school chum had not arranged for a plane to be crashed. It just seemed too convenient. Sally had assured her that as well connected as Wang Su was, crashing a commercial flight was beyond her.

The upshot though, was it had made Vicky very wealthy. Slut had obediently signed every legal document placed in front of her. Even those that had to be signed in front of witnesses and magistrates. Admittedly, the magistrates had been under Sally's influence. But Slut was now her legal charge. If she ran away, the police would bring her back to her. Vicky had assumed control of Slut's wealth and possession of Slut's property.

Vicky now drove John's Porsche, slept in the home that John and Angela once shared and had paid off the debts incurred setting up the shop. In truth, the business was now a profitable hobby. John had been well insured, and the airline compensation had simply polished things off.

Sally had insisted that the deception of the strep infection be maintained until she had proof that John was really out of the picture. Apparently, Wang Su was being rather coy about just what fate had befallen the man. She was quick to assure Sally that his face would never be seen again and the man had not been murdered. Vicky had to assume he was being held somewhere in either Hong Kong or mainland China against his will. Until his eventual return was ruled out, Sally did not want to assume anything.

But today she would come around to the store to deliver the good news as Professor Boult. The hood would be removed and the gag extracted. Slut could finally say, "Yes, Mistress," when ordered, and Vicky could watch the girl's cheeks burn with shame with each humiliation heaped upon her.

The door buzzer sounded, and Slut leapt up to answer it. Clearly, she too wanted to be free of the hood. Sally swept in after Slut opened the door. Ignoring the slave, she strode over to Vicky and greeted her warmly.

"Hello Vicky, how have you been keeping? Well, I hope?"

"Professor, thank you for coming personally. You know a letter would have sufficed."

"Of course, but I like to take a personal interest, and just sending off a letter is so cold."

"Can I get you a drink? Tea or Coffee?"

"Oh, a nice cup of tea would be lovely."

"Slave!" Barked Vicky, smirking as the petite, latex gimp propelled herself over to the two women. "Two cups of tea. Quickly, Slut."

Slut curtseyed and rushed to the backroom to do as ordered. It seemed infuriating that a simple message, waited on for so long, could be delayed even further by polite niceties. Slut was convinced Professor Boult could make an excellent dominatrix herself, should she care to turn her hand to the craft. The woman clearly had an evil streak for making Mistress (and Slut) wait for the news.

As quickly as the kettle boiled Slut was carrying a tray bearing a filled teapot, cups and saucers, milk jug and sugar bowl. Mistress never accepted mugs with individual teabags. Having delivered the tray to the women Slut knelt and tried to calm herself.

Her owner seemed to be feigning disinterest in the professor's news and kept making small talk about every inane thing under the sun. After a pointless conversation about the weather and the hardships of wearing latex in the sun, the professor finally came to the point.

"So I expect you are keen to hear the results of your slave's last blood test?"

"You know I ought to be. But I've become so accustomed to Slut as a gimp I've been giving serious thought to keeping her that way permanently."

"Really? Do you think she would like that?"

"Who gives a fuck? She's my slave, and I'll do what I want with her. She's my property. A thing. Hell, if I wanted her limbs removed and her body turned into a stool that licked the genitals of all who sat on it, she would be grateful to be useful. Wouldn't you, Slut?"

Slut nodded to her Mistress, horrified at both the idea of such a fate, and the fact it actually aroused her.

"Such an obedient slave," murmured the professor. "Either way, I can report her blood tests came back negative. Obviously, the choice is yours, Vicky. But you no longer need to keep your slave gimped up for medical reasons."

"Okay... You know what? I've forgotten what she looks like. I mean, sure, I've been inspecting her skin. But I've not looked at her face in the light for months. Wanna take a gander? We can seal her back up after..."

"Oh, I'm game, Vicky. You may want to close up shop and dim the lights first."

"Why dim the lights?"

"You could actually damage her eyesight permanently if you don't. Her irises are not used to closing and may be sluggish, which in turn could cause damage to the retina."

"Slave, lock the door and then come to the centre of the room."

After obeying her owner, Slut stood still as the lights were dimmed. The action blinded her as there was too little light left for her to see through the heavily tinted lenses of the hood.

She felt her Mistress handling her collar. There was a click followed by the weird sensation of it being removed.

Pain! Her eyes exploded in her head as the light flooded in. Reflexively Slut screwed up her eyes shut. No matter what the dominants thought, the light level did not seem low. It was far too bright for Slut. Slowly though, she managed to open her eyes.

Mistress let out a slow whistle, "Wow! Have you ever seen someone so pale?"

"Hmm, yes, that is one side effect of such a long time away from light."

"Will this cause any long-term issues?"

"No, dear. Her food was fortified with vitamin D. Just let her wear dark glasses outside for the first week or so and apply sunscreen if you are going to be outside for any length of time. Are you going to keep her bald?"