The Twelve Days of Kinkmass

The padded metal bands went on first. They locked around Tiffany's wrists, biceps, thighs, ankles and throat. The padding felt soft and spongey. She wondered if they had to be changed as the geese gained weight in their battery pens, or if they were gimmicked to expand a little. The first metal bar was a thin wide leg spreader between the ankle bands. Next braces went up from the outsides of the ankle bands to the outsides of the thigh bands. The braces were curved so as to not press into any of the wearer's flesh. An A shaped frame ran from the backs of the thighs and the wrist bands, then connected to the back of the collar at the top and the biceps bands lower down. Again, its struts were curved just to touch the bands and nothing else. It felt really weird, and Tiffany had to admit that she liked the feel of the tight bondage. When the gooseherd had her take a step backwards, she had to swing her whole body to move one foot a little.

As he began to hook other stuff to her, Tiffany realised that there were attachment points for al of this stuff, and maybe other things besides, on the bondage cage she was wearing. He attached electrodes to her arms, legs, chest, back, buttocks and shoulders and gathered the leads between two monitors on the frame behind her.

Tiffany spent the whole procedure dreading the catheter and anal pipe. Both were unpleasant, but not as bad as she feared. The feeling of the catheter slithering its way inside her up to her bladder was more strange and uncomfortable than painful, but the anal pipe did hurt, as it somehow flared out once it was inserted inside her. That wasn't nice at all, and the sharp yank the gooseherd gave Tiffany to check that it was seated properly was even worse. Tiffany felt a little ashamed that being fitted with the egg collection tube made her sob.

"Almost done," the gooseherd said, soothing her. "You won't be able to breathe for a moment when I hood you, but that will soon pass."

Tiffany couldn't, and it did. She also couldn't see or hear. There was a blank space in front of her eyes, but nothing touched them, and she could feel something pressing tightly around her eye sockets. The edges of some sort of housing, she supposed. She could also feel something over her ears that was completely blacking out the outside world. There was a crackle and then she heard the gooseherd's voice. "Okay in there? Just wiggle your fingers. Good. I need you to tilt your head back and open your mouth as wide as you can while I fit the cage around your head. Once that's done, I can put you in your pen and finish hooking you up."

The ring gag fit behind Tiffany's teeth and was covered with something soft and rubbery. It opened her mouth a lot wider than felt comfortable, but she supposed that she'd have three months to get used to it. She couldn't feel any other contact from the cage, which she supposed had been fastened to her collar. It couldn't weigh that much, Tiffany supposed. Tiffany was manhandled into her stall. She couldn't hear any clicks or snaps, but she knew that her legspreader was being fastened to a ring on the floor and her head cage was being connected to a chain overhead. Then she felt a tube at her lips and tried not to gag as it was thrust down her throat. It hurt going down, her attempts to heave the tube back up resolving into a tight knot of pain forcing its way down her oesophegus. Tiffany hadn't realised that she was going to fed straight into her stomach, rather with than a short tube in her mouth. She could feel the knot of pain slowly easing its way down her chest towards her stomach. She was very, very relieved when that started to fade as the tube reached its way into her stomach. She could still feel the tube, but the pain was almost gone now. Tiffany was suddenly grateful for the uncomfortable tube up her anus, as it looked she was being allowed to control that one, and move her own bowels, rather than having her bowels drain without any action from her like her bladder. She felt hands on her body and a prick in her thigh.

Lights pulsed in front of her ears and she heard a hissing in her ears. She supposed that meant that a single board computer had been hooked up to the goggles and headphones in her hood, and she'd be connected to the media server soon. Tiffany was a goose now. She wondered if she'd even notice food slithering down the tube in her throat when she was fed, and realised that she was actually looking forwards to moving her bowels and laying eggs. As her muscles began flex without her doing anything, she knew that she was probably going to come out of this experience a lot more anal, as that was now the only part of her body she had any control at all over now, and she intended to relish exercising it. She wondered if that was a deliberate piece of conditioning that this set up had been designed to encourage.

...Seven Swans A-Swimming...

It was the smallest corps de ballet Evangeline had ever seen for a performance of Swan Lake, but she supposed the costumes had put a lot of the company off. Still, that wasn't her problem. Even some of the dancers who usually got featured roles had turned their noses up at this performance so Miranda, the company's insufferably snooty prima, was dancing both Odette and Odille, Russian style. Evangeline found it hard to feel any sympathy for her over that. It was some sort of unofficial recital, which paid better than an official, which meant that anybody who was giving up new year's eve for this was either the sort of bunhead who couldn't bear to miss out on a chance to add a recital to their resume or the sort of breadhead who wanted the unusually large fee. Evangeline knew which camp she fit into, and thought that the pay more than made up for the costume.

Looking at her costume in the mirror, Evangeline could still see why objections besides the timing had reduced the company to thirteen dancers for this performance. The white rubber leotard bared her breasts, the beak attacked to the hood looked completely ridiculous (and rather more like it belonged on a duck than a swan, Evangeline thought) even if it did conceal that her mouth and nose weren't covered by the hood, and it had turned out that the rubber stockings wouldn't stay up unless they were glued to a pair of tights around their tops. The costume designer had created these getups with corsets and suspenders in mind as well, but then she usually designed costumes for fetishists not dancers, so maybe it would be unfair to take her to task for that. Evangeline still wondered if she'd any idea what a ballet even was and how she expected anybody to perform a ballotte or grand jete in suspenders. The designer hadn't expected anybody to wear a pair of plain white tights under the rubber and glue the stockings in place, but had known better than to say anything about Amy's solution to the suspenders problem. At least the skintight opera gloves would stay in place by themselves.

It had crossed Evangeline's mind that they should maybe have rehearsed in this gear rather than the generous patron for this particular recital unveiling the costumes the day before. She could imagine a lengthy delay while Miranda switched between her two costumes, and her own get up was pretty minimal next to the gear the featured dancers had been crammed into. She could definitely see the aesthetic appeal of rubber looking at the stunning outfits that had been concocted for the male dancers, but she didn't envy them having to dance in that stuff. Apart from Miranda, they were all wearing much more elaborate headgear than the duckbilled swan hoods the corps were sporting. Phil was stuck sporting a hooded mask that made him look like a sort of goth Darth Vader.

Evangeline looked over at Justine who was putting the final touches to her own get up while they waited for the start of act one. She was putting white lipstick on her nipples. Evangeline and the rest of the corps who'd bothered had just powdered their breasts with some of the talc they'd used to help them wriggle into the rubber. "I just can't get what you see in this sort of gear, Teen," she said. "Sorry."

Justine smiled knowingly. "It's kind of an acquired taste," she said. "The chafing, the sticky feeling, the sweat, that's all part of the fun." As the one member of the company who was open about attending the occasional fetish night, Justine had suddenly found herself in an unexpected position of authority. She seemed to be enjoying it, and to her great credit was being a lot less catty with those among the members of the corps who hadn't ran away screaming the second the idea was mentioned who'd had waspish things to say about her tastes in clubwear before this performance was arranged. Most of the corps members who'd been really shitty to Justine about that had cried off this performance, of course, but Celeste was here, biting her tongue, looking really uncomfortable in the get up and maybe gaining a bit more respect for Justine than she'd shown in the past. Rowena seemed a bit less embarrassed, and for all Evangeline knew was going to apologise to Justine after the performance was over and say that she really liked this rubber gear. Maybe not, but Evangeline couldn't rule out the possibility that some of the other girls were into this stuff, and a bit more guarded about it than Justine was? Stranger things had happened, but Evangeline knew that she wasn't part of that happy number.

"The sweat is definitely a problem," Evangeline said. "I'm glowing like crazy just sitting in here waiting for the curtain call. And this stuff doesn't breathe."

"Hard as it may be to believe, you get some folks who like that. The pools of sweat that'll collect in the feet of these stockings after we've busted a few moves? There's subby types who get off on lapping that up and licking the insides of rubber underwear clean."

"It takes all sorts. I'm assuming our generous sponsor for tonight isn't one of those guys?"

"Nope. Word on the street is that Lord Kinky is absolutely a dominant type male. There's also a scurrilous rumour doing the grounds that he's staging this whole entertainment to impress some chick he's trying to add to his stable."

"It's alright for some, isn't it?"

"So they say. Mind you the whole thing might be a bit of a faux pas on that level."

"How so?" Evangeline asked. Justine smiled a wicked smile, and put her lipstick on the dressing table. When she was sure the pause had attracted the attention of the other five duckbilled rubber swans in the dressing room, she continued.

"You didn't hear this from me and it goes now further than this room, right?"

Evangeline wasn't the only one who cackled at that. That sort of phrasing had been a code for "tell everybody you possibly can" for longer than she could remember. "Perish the thought," she said.

"The last big Iron and Gold party of the year, the Friday before Christmas Eve, Lord Kinky accompanied his latest conquest to the event, both of them dolled up in a two or three of grand's worth of rubber each."

"So his new slave wasn't just wearing a brand on her bum and a ring in her nose?" Jade said.

"Nope. But she was wearing a pair of ballet boots and waddling around like a four year old trying on mummy's highest heels. The baby T-Rex teeter, right?"

Lana joined the fun by immediately going up on her toes and mincing unsteadily across the floor with her hands raised slightly.

"Right," Justine said. "And she did the Emma Bunton in platforms thing. In front of the whole club as they made their grand entrance. She was not at all happy with his Lordship, put it that way. Of course, she knows that this was arranged months ago, and has nothing to do with the fact that she can't walk en pointe without falling over, but even so, she's likely a lot less enthusiastic about the whole show than she was before she fell on her bum in front of photographers from Skin 2 and Marquis."

"You weren't there, then?" Jade said.

Justine sighed heavily and theatrically. She might even have pouted behind her bill. "Sadly not," she said. "Story of my life, really. Something like that happens at the only Gold and Iron I've missed all year."

"Poor thing," Lana giggled.

"Me or her?" Justine asked. "Or were you about to start singing from Carmina Burana?"

"You of course. Who gives a damn about some bint whose boyfriend has arranged for a ballet in rubber to impress her?"

"Put it like that," Justine said, "you're right. Anyway, none of your girls heard this from me, right? And of course, it goes no further. It would be really terrible if that story spread any further than it already has."

A selection of six assorted acknowledgements emerged from amongst the giggling and tittering that suddenlt filled the air. None sounded even slightly sincere.

"Say what you like about this gear," Lana said, "but it doesn't matter if the audience can see our tits because they can't see our faces past these hoods and beaks. If somebody in the auditorium has sneaked in a camera, they'll see Miranda, Fenny's and some of the boys faces on youtube, but not ours."

"See, Vangie?" Justine says. "Lana gets it."

Evangeline refrained from mentioning that Lana didn't have any tits to expose. Even for a ballerina she was flat. "Well, maybe," she said instead. "I just hope all the squeaking and squelching from this gear doesn't drown out the music."

"He's probably paid for a decent PA," Rowena mused. "He'll have saved money because it's a lot harder to find an orchestra who'll play on new year's eve than a third of a ballet company who will."

"And blown more than he saved on musicians on these ridiculous costumes," Celeste said. "Sorry, Teen."

"Look on the bright side," Evangeline said. "We could be doing the fucking Nutcracker again, couldn't we?" That inspired another laughing fit. Rubber swans were still sniggering and giggling when the buzzer went off.

"I think we're about to find out how good the PA is," Abigail said. They made their way to the wings. The beaked hoods were good for hiding giggles as well as mouths and jawlines.

...Eight Maids A-Milking...

It was the weirdest porn film Monique had ever made. She wondered if she should feel embarrassed that her slave started spurting before any of the others present, but she had his anus particularly well trained, she supposed. That was why she'd brought him, rather than any of her other clients. Of course, when she got there, she found out that five out of the other invited Pro-Dommes had brought more than one slave along each.

Monique waited until Jerome's dick stopped spurting a thin, watery discharge, then unfastened him from the stocks and ordered him to pick the cup up. Normally he'd lap the stuff up in front of her, and she wondered if this wasn't some sort of weird lapse of discipline. Maybe that was why only eight pro-Dommes had turned up for this. There were stocks to accommodate a few more slaves pushed into one corner where the cameras weren't aimed, so they might have been hoping for a bigger event. More likely people had blown this out because it was the evening of New Year's day.

At least Monique had dressed up. She tended to sport nosebleed high heels whenever she was working as some would argue that she was far too short to be a Dominatrix at five foot two. She had the look and the attitude in spades to make up for that though, she reminded herself as she snapped her fingers at Jerome and pointed. He put the cup he'd spurted into on the table next to the ticket a functionary had printed out with the time it'd taken him to ejaculate. He was the best looking of Monique's regular clients, which was another reason she'd only brought the one slave. Next to the four slobby lardy freaks Mistress Venus had brought along, he looked like Leonardo DiCaprio before the Oscar dodger hit forty and started morphing into a lardy Alan Sugar.

"You okay doing an interview before leaving?" a manager asked. Harassed looking, but not quite flinching. Monique shrugged.

"Sure, why not?"

"Great, thank you."

"Do I get to ask what this is about?"

"Lord Kinky will tell you that himself," the functionary said. "Still. Special moisturiser for whichever of his wifelets wins a contest he's staging, or some damned thing."

Monique couldn't not cackle, but none of the cameras were trained this way. "I thought that was an urban myth about spunk being good for your skin."

"I'm sure it is. It might be a 'reward'," he paused to do air quotes, "rather than a reward proper. Don't know. Don't really care."

"Do you know if it's true about the geese? And the dairy farm?"

"And the cockfights? Sorry, but they didn't let anybody but the producer anywhere near the stately pile."

"Maybe it is all true, then."

"Maybe so. Anyway, if you take a seat on the sofa with your slave, I'll just fetch Sophie to interview you."

"Thanks," Sophie said, as the production assistant rushed off to be harassed about something else entirely.

...Nine Drummers Drumming...

"I can't believe you've entered us into this, my Lord," Marianne said.

Derwent sighed. "Keep on bratting it up like this," he said "and I'll enter you again and let somebody else beat a rhythm out on your bum as well after I'm done with it."

"Sorry, my Lord," Marianne said. She was sure her master would never dream of doing any such thing, but decided against pushing him any further. That didn't mean that she didn't felt nervous about the whole affair, though. The fact that it was so ridiculous just made it even more humiliating to be involved. Humiliation wasn't really Marianne's thing as a sub. She liked being controlled and certain types of pain. Public humiliation, she was far less taken with.

The play party they'd attended was staging a bitch buttocks bongo drum off. Marianne had an idea that Derwent had known in this advance, and she had been told to wear a spanking skirt with a window that exposed her generous buttocks. It wasn't the only spanking skirt Marianne owned, and she normally enjoyed wearing one to clubs and parties where she could flaunt the heart and banner slave tattoo on her right cheek. She wasn't even opposed to being publicly spanked, as wearing a spanking skirt and not going over anybody's knee was the worst sort of teasing.

What did worry Marianne, though, was the prospect of her Master losing the contest. He was not a good loser, like a lot of the A type control freaks who'd probably make a better bottom than they did a top, but would never even think about trying it. Not that he was lacking as a Master, but the hissy fits and passive aggressive pouting didn't really work for that role, in Marianne's opinion.

Apart from her red rubber spanking skirt, Marianne wore a pair of red and black striped hold up stockings, red Doc Martens, and a black rubber corset that maximised her cleavage. As a spanking enthusiast, Derwent was more of a bum man, but he still liked his slave to flaunt her rack. A studded collar round her throat with a dog's identity disc dangling from its d ring was the finishing touch. Derwent, for his part was dressed like a stereotypical male dominant: leather jeans, big boots, a silk shirt and a leather vest, all black, of course. His thick gingerish hair was brushed back from his temples, worn just long enough to stop it sticking up, and his matching beard was trimmed into a neat vandyke. At least he wasn't wearing sunglasses inside tonight, she conceded.

It wasn't Derwent's skills as a spanker that were in question, at any rate. He was great at that, which was why their relationship had lasted as long as it did, and finally gone into a full time power exchange. What worried Marianne was skill as a drummer, or more likely, complete lack of skill as a drummer. During the first flush of their relationship, over a decade ago, she'd made a point of buying him an X Box 360 for Christmas rather than the Wii she'd fancied a lot more because she knew that he was absolutely hopeless at rhythm games. Watching him screw up playing Dance Dance revolution and Rockstar at friends' houses was bad enough without bringing that home. Far better that he stuck to first person shooters, survival horror and JRPGS, the kinds of game he was actually good at. After watching him throw a DS through a window in a fit of pique over not being able to do the Pokemon berry mixing subgame in one of those things very well, Marianne had not wanted to watch her Master kicking a far more expensive console to death in a similar mantrum.