Memoirs of a Sex Slave Ch. 02bySapphos Sister©
I suppose it was all my fault. Hardly a day had passed since I posted my story – Memoirs of a Sex Slave – before I started to receive messages from dominatrices around the globe offering to chain, gag, beat, clamp, whip, spank and keelhaul me, and then to punish my poor pussy in ways that I didn't know existed.
The prospect was terribly arousing (though, in most cases, illegal in Western countries) and rather whetted my appetite. So it was with a growing sense of anticipation that I settled down over a cup of cocoa and a packet of bourbons with my landlady, Mrs Barraclough, to sort through the pile of emailed responses.
Although Mrs B is a pillar of the community and a stalwart of the Women's Institute, the dear lady has been terribly supportive of my sexual endeavours. She says it's just that the opportunities didn't exist in her day. Otherwise she would have quite liked to try lap dancing and reckons that the late Mr Barraclough would have taken to the swinging scene like a fish to water.
'Good Heavens!' said Mrs B, flicking through the print-outs. 'This one's from a Madam Vegan. She wants to violate all your openings with cucumbers.'
'Oh, that's nothing. I said. 'There's one here from The Sushi Sun Goddess. She wants to thrash my backside with a conger eel and then insert live fish into me.'
'Wouldn't that be rather wriggly?' said Mrs B distastefully.
'It would be okay. I once had a boyfriend called Floppy Phil, but it's the fish I feel sorry for.'
There wasn't one suggestion that satisfied what I considered to be rather straightforward requirements of a would-be lesbian sex slave: namely total subservience, bondage, spanking, nipple clamping, exhibitionism and compulsory group sex, with a little light dusting and ironing thrown in. It was all quite dispiriting and, with a heavy heart, I started to prepare a standard letter of reply:
'Dear Madam Vegan / Sushi Sun Goddess / Lady Horsewhip / Iron Maiden / Mistress Thumbscrew / Birch Bitch
Thank you so much for your very tempting proposal. However, I'm afraid I will have to decline your invitation on account of my highly developed aversion to gourds of any kind / soy sauce / Paraguayan virgins' blood / barbed wire / execution chambers / gerbils (delete as appropriate).
I do hope that you are able to make alternative arrangements.
Yours obediently (in spirit)
Flora, aka Blue'
Mrs B offered me a consoling arm and, having finished our cocoa in disappointed silence, went to make another cup.
A few moments later she burst in and exclaimed: 'Flora! There's been another email. What do you think?'
She read it out: 'Dear Lesbian Fuck Slut ....'
'Well, it starts promisingly,' I said.
Mrs B continued: 'I want you now – bare-arse naked, handcuffed, pierced and clamped – to lick my boots whilst I beat your raw arse scarlet and then watch you fuck my maids of honour.
Email by return.
PS Transport can be provided on alternate Tuesdays.'
'She sounds nice,' I said. 'I'll email straightaway.'
Mistress Purgatory replied to my email the next day and asked to meet me at a bungalow a few miles away, but I declined. I much prefer to have such liaisons in public places ever since an unfortunate blind date with a pole dancer I met on the internet. On arrival at the given address I discovered that Bethany was a six foot two dockworker trying to get in touch with his feminine side. I would have given it a go (after all, I'd had a waxing especially) but he just wanted to swap make-up tips. I had to escape through a window when he went to touch up his mascara.
Instead Mistress P suggested we meet at two o'clock in The Pussy Pillow, a new bar just off The Hoe. Sounds perfect, I thought and immediately requested a full day's holiday in order to prepare for the appointment. At least that would spare me lunch with Maureen. She was planning to give me a blow-by-blow account of her weekend in Dublin with Frank, her new beau. Apparently they'd had so much anal sex that he'd re-named her Kerrygold. Well, that would be a relief (which, it seems, is more than Maureen's derriere had enjoyed).
Of course, I spent the whole morning dithering about what to wear. How does one dress for an interview with a prospective dominatrice? Rubber hotpants would be appropriate but did tend to squeak rather distractingly in mid-squirm. Nipple clamps or not? Bondage collar? Mini-skirt and no knickers? I didn't want to seem too eager. I imagined that Mistress Purgatory would welcome a little reluctance on my part in order to prove her erotic omnipotence. Finally I decided on a simple black blouse and grey, pleated skirt just above the knee, with lacy black underwear and low heels. Classily demure with just a hint of challenge.
I arrived ten minutes early and found the lounge empty apart from a rather delicious waitress leaning provocatively across the bar. I sat down and sunk into a pile of pillows, each shaped like a pair of swollen red pussy lips. Very sophisticated. After a few minutes a middle-aged woman walked in, sat a couple of tables away and summoned the waitress over. Oh, I hope it's not her, I thought to myself. She had a shapely figure and looked encouragingly stern but was rather, well, whiskery. I do like my lovers to have less hair on their lips than their pussies – it's just one of my silly dating rules. It makes 69 so confusing. Another of my rules is: never say to a woman police officer: 'I bet you can do some interesting things with that truncheon.' With Madeleine I discovered she could, and she did.
Anyway, when another, older lady joined the bearded one, I relaxed. I glanced at the menu on the table and decided a cocktail might settle my nerves. The waitress breezed over to take my order.
'I'm torn between A Long Comfortable Screw Against A Wall and A Legspreader,' I said, studying the menu contemplatively. 'Which do you recommend?' The waitress grinned down at me.
'The Nipple Kiss always does it for me,' she said.
'Mmm, I'm not sure. Do you have any other cocktails?' I asked.
'What makes you think they're cocktails?' she whispered and sat down beside me.
'Oh,' I squealed delightedly. 'In that case can I have A Cat's Cradle followed by A Reverse Oral? I'm afraid we'll have to be quick – I'm here for an interview.' I reached for my handbag.
'You must be Blue,' replied the girl. 'Mistress Purgatory said you'd be coming by. She's waiting for you in the dungeon.'
I sighed disappointedly. 'Oh well, perhaps later. Which way is it to the dungeon?' I asked, rising to my feet.
'Just along the corridor to your right,' she replied.
'Down there where the screaming's coming from?' I asked excitedly, noticing the distant groaning noise for the first time.
'Actually,' she said, 'that's the plumbing.'
I strode hurriedly down the corridor, hardly glancing at the sundry implements of torture hanging on the walls. At the end I knocked on a heavy wooden door.
A husky, female voice beckoned me in. The door creaked eerily as I prised it open. Inside all was gloom.
'Abase yourself before me, slave!' the voice cried out.
I felt a flood of excitement spill from my pussy into my tummy, complete two circuits and spurt back into my pussy. It was moistening nicely. I knelt down, my perspiring hands stretched out before me in supplication. I felt the butt of my mistress's whip on my bottom as she paced around my prone body.
'Identify yourself, slut!'
I cleared my throat, my gaze fixed to the ground. Then I adopted my meekest voice (the one I used when I asked Mr Jameson for the day off).
'Mistress,' I whimpered piteously. 'I am Flora, sometimes known as Blue. I come to offer you my body, mind and soul. Will you take me?' This was such fun. I do love it when my panties get squishy.
Mistress Purgatory stood silently above me, tapping the whip against her open palm.
'If I please you,' I continued, 'my reward will be your pleasure. If I incur your wrath, then I must be punished. I ask only that you honour me with your guardianship.' Not bad, I thought to myself. I've definitely got the hang of this sex slavery. I wonder when we get to the pussy-licking. But still not an utterance from Mistress P. I coughed and spoke again.
'I need to feel the heat of your hand upon me, Mistress, the scent of fear in my nostrils, the taste of your whip across my buttocks and the wet, weeping desire dripping from my slit with every stroke visited upon my flesh.'
A familiar voice finally broke the silence. 'Gosh, you're awfully good at this, aren't you? You'd never guess that you're a librarian.'
I looked up and was astonished to see Mrs Barraclough standing above me, whip in hand.
'What are you doing here?' I shrieked.
'I sent you the email, dear. Or should I call you Penitence? That's your name here. Don't you think I look good in all this M & S gear?'
Mrs B's aging, plump body was squeezed into a basque, stockings and thigh length boots, and covered with a long, black leather trench coat.
'You look ridiculous, Mrs B,' I said. 'And anyway, it's S & M, not M & S.'
'No, no' she said, showing me the Marks and Spencer label. 'I bought it from their new domination range.'
I turned to go, intent on claiming some sexy refreshment from my gorgeous waitress. Next I heard a clap of thunder and a crack of lightning across my poor rump and through every cell in my body. The pain was excruciating. I felt my right cheek. Mrs B's whip had torn my skirt.
'Designer label?' she asked, with mock sympathy.
'F-C-U-K,' I muttered between gnashed teeth.
Another lash gashed my left cheek.
'Oh, God, please!' I exclaimed.
'I do abhore swearing,' she said. 'It's so fucking rude. Now, if you remember, Penitence, my dear lesbian slut, I want you bare-arse naked on the floor.'
I looked her in the eye. She was slowly reeling in the whip, ready to strike again. I unbuttoned my blouse and pulled it out of the waistband of my skirt. A salty tear rolled down my cheek. Soon I was sobbing uncontrollably.
They were tears of joy .....
[to be continued]