I checked the address at least three times not wanting to surprise some totally unaware and disinterested party. Walking from the bus stop to Margaret B’s home was the most difficult three blocks of my life. That is a bit dramamatic I suppose, but those four inch heels in addition to being very high and rather unstable were painfully tight. I nearly fell the first time I stepped from sidewalk to street and that would have been a disaster. Any sign of a run on my stocking covered legs would demand a painful punishment that I could not tolerate and would certainly be upsetting for the planed adventure.
Putting one foot in front of the other, I strutted my stuff with a wiggle up to the porch. Realizing immediately that this was indeed the right place, I carefully and quickly lowered myself to my knees, buckled the collar tightly around my neck, and placed the blindfold over my eyes. Three hard knocks on the door made the submissive request to be the Mistress’s bitch for at least 24 hours.
My only concern regarded my black nylon covered knees and would they be torn. Tear the nylons tear the knees, that’s the rule! Personally, I gave her until dark to take me into her dungeon and have her way with me. Knocking again was not permitted and neither was getting up and leaving. However, I decided that it was two hours to dark and if she did not receive me by then I would remove the collar and blindfold to leave, probably for ever.
While we wait for the dear Mistress, who may never come, let me catch you up on how I got to this point of humiliation. I am one of MARGARET B’s greatest fans and as such a fan and indeed worshiper, I have been given special knowledge about her endeavors. This includes the fact that she is not really a beautician but, lets just say, an alternate lifestyle counselor. At least the title is neither illegal, immoral, nor fattening, and you can’t ask for more than that in this day and age. Realizing the truth, I pleaded and begged for three months almost every time I wrote that she would receive me as a client.
A month ago, she wrote telling me that there was an unusual opening on a Thursday due to a cancellation. If interested I must reply within the hour and agree to come by bus dressed as commanded to be her bitch sub slave for 24 hours more or less as her interest dictated. I sent her a hundred word paragraph pleading and begging to be her submissive slut slave for one minute, hour, day, or week any thing she might find amusing. I stayed up half the night before falling asleep from exhaustion awaiting her answer. Finally, the next afternoon she replied saying I was accepted and gave strict instructions regarding how and what I was to do.
I would leave Phoenix Wednesday night on the bus after taking at least five full quart enemas and placing two tampons, well, up there. I was not to eat leaving and only drink water during the trip which would last over ten hours. I was not to wear or carry with me any male clothing whatsoever. My legs and privates must be shaved clean, nails polished in bright red on toes and fingers, and make up must be heavy and concealing. A long wig, earrings, and some suitable inexpensive costume jewelry would help to hide my real gender. Panties, bra, pantyhose all in black without any runs were required undergarments. She even provided catalogue numbers of the hose, panties, bra, and shoes to buy.
I was to bring no additional change of clothes and wear a plaid dress playfully stopping three to four inches above the knee over a half slip. The shoes would be platform sandals exposing the toes with high heels, the tighter the better. I would carry a small handbag with all my worldly goods including a sizable donation of dead presidents.
After riding in public for all the world to see dressed to the nines as a woman, I would catch two different local buses and walk three blocks from the final stop to her home. Should I fail for any reason to arrive at five PM, blindfolded and collared on my knees, I must never contact her again for any reason. Death before dishonor! These were her commands to be followed to the letter with out question or deviation. As she put it, I was most fortunate that she was at all willing to see me and had best make every effort to comply.
I was not obedient. I was totally horrified of riding on a bus for near four hundred miles dressed as a woman with wig and makeup in front of dozens of strangers. The idea of the thing turned my stomach into knots. I thought of calling the whole thing off or just not keeping my appointment. Sleep was difficult. As each day passed, I began to think of ways to take control of the situation at least to the point where I arrived where I am now, on the porch.
Finally, after considering doing as I was told and rejecting the ride as a woman in heels, hose, make up, wig, and dress. I decided to fly with female undergarments under male slacks and shirt. The flight would not be long and I could change into a woman at LAX in a cleaner room then I could expect in a bus station. Besides, I read about such a man changing in a ladies room at LAX in one of MARGARET B’s stories. I would rent a locker and leave my bag with men’s apparel there over night. With the exception of entering a ladies restroom as a man without being noticed, the whole concept had merit.
Well, I did make it into the ladies room without being noticed, challenged, or arrested. A quick look around and in I went. The sinks were in one direction and the stalls the other. No urinals were there, of course. I headed for the handicap stall knowing I would have more room to operate. There were two or three women at the sinks paying no attention to whom or what gender entered and two of the stalls were occupied with people taking care of their own personal needs. Once in the stall, I was safe. I sat on the toilet seat removed my shoes and dropped my pants. With no one banging on the stall door, I felt safe sitting with only my black pantyhose showing from the waist down.
Taking off my pull over shirt, I began the process of changing into a slut. First, the nail polish on the fingers and then the wig went in place. I know most of the time I should put my make up on before the wig, but I needed to have the general appearance of a female when standing in front of the mirror. I pulled the dress from my bag hanging it to reduce the wrinkles as the polish dried. The shoes came out and the slip went on with the breast padding inside the long line front hook bra I had worn from Phoenix. I decided that the floor was clean and dry enough to walk over to the sink and stand in my stocking feet as I applied my makeup.
I was very self-conscious, but none of the other women gave me a second thought. One even pulled off her top and bra rubbing her sore breasts in front of me with just a coy smile on her face. I smiled back. After putting on my face and a touch of perfume, I looked at myself in the mirror thinking “who is going to believe this!” I slipped on the tight shoes and walked out into the terminal half expecting to draw laughter, pointed fingers, or at the very least a few odd looks. However, no one paid the least bit of attention making me feel oddly some how disappointed. Finding a rental locker, I left my maleness behind.
A shuttle to the bus stop at lot B with men offering to help me on and off as well as holding doors made me wonder if I really did look like a woman. It actually took longer to get from LAX to Margaret’s home then from Phoenix to Los Angeles. After a fifteen minute walk from the bus stop in those very high and tight heels, I was kneeling in submission at her door. Before I blinded myself I deposited, five one hundred dollar bills into the donation can. I had never paid for such services before and I hoped that this amount would be reasonable.
She had laid out the basic elements of what would happen to me. I would be catheterized and drink only urine for the 24 plus hours. Because I was traveling such a long way, the usual limited activities of the first visit would be enhanced. Rather than two to three nails per foot, they would all be pulled. I have to tell you that the nail pulling and the catheter were my requests. I would prefer only one or two from each foot, but she does have a point about coming so far. She was sorry that she could not provide a bi-sexual male to sodomize me or allow me to experience giving head. This was a relief as I am full hetero and have never wanted to change preference.
Oh, here she comes to the door, couldn’t have been more than thirty minutes. A leash was hooked to the collar, a jerk commanded me to my feet, and off I went to the dungeon of a stranger. What could be better than that?
“Off with the dress! I’ll hang it up so it will look nice for your long ride home. Everything else, including your ego, will be destroyed.”
I was strapped tightly to the wall. Wrists, forearms, ankles, knees, and even my collar were tightly secured against the unseen wall. I was so rigidly strapped to the wall that for all intense and purpose, I became part of it. I was unable to move even an inch and breathing was labored, requiring me to concentrate and make a real effort just to receive air. The slip was slit from bottom to top and discarded. I think she wanted to tear at least one garment off my body to make a point of how helpless and vulnerable I was.
She took her time smoothing her hands over my nylon covered legs and ass in a way a male lover might to both feel the body and arouse his partner. I would guess this caressing molestation was near five minutes and I was deeply entrenched generating the largest hard on I can remember. Then abruptly, she pulled the panty of my hose down just below my ass and snip snip the panties became a rag. After burning a very small hole in the liner of my pantyhose, she pulled them firmly back into place with my erect cock and tight balls forced through the very uncomfortable opening.
The medical use of a catheter is very valuable. When inserted correctly with ample lubricate by a seasoned professional the procedure is safe and comfortable, if somewhat humiliating. Having someone gently insert the latex tube into your private sexual organ brings feelings of violation, rape, and an odd unusual sort of arousal. I cannot honestly say whether I was horrified or pleasured. The only real discomfort or pain is when the blunt tip of the tube forces its way through the sphincter muscle that controls urine flow from the bladder. This was an abrupt and shocking attack which left me wondering, “What the hell am I doing!”
At that point urine empties through the tube and all control of this personal function developed and maintained during your life time for social reasons ceases. Regrettably, Margaret’s technique lacks gentleness. I am sure this was intentional. I complained about the irritation only to have the tube drawn back half way and fed in again for practice she said, but more to keep my mouth shut, I presume. There is a balloon near the tip inside the bladder which is inflated by sterile water. Professionally the water is at room temperature, but Margaret does something else. I shook from the chill brought on by the ice water flowing down my penis and filling my bladder. It was a horrible sensation and for a moment I thought I would pass out. Then, my body warmed it.
“You want me to practice some more! Now, for your last words, ask me to take you to hell and back.”
I was just recovering from the intrusive attack on my private member and after several long deep breathes managed to beg for what we both knew was coming. After accepting my statement of consent, I was gagged for the duration of my stay. The ball gag was soft and fit tight with a tube extending back into my throat. In order to assist in the production of urine, she gladly gave me a quart of her own. This was poured through the tube in my mouth and down my gullet. You surely understand that as the fluid is recycled over and over it becomes terribly strong and vile in flavor.
“I have good news and bad news. I have reshuffled my schedule and you will be here two days rather than one. On the second day, my favorite well hung bi-sexual black stud will be here to rape you as many times as his 22 year old athletic body and Viagra will allow. By the time he is finished with you, you should know the basic skills of sucking cock. The bad news is that you disobeyed me. You will need to be punished. I have decided not to castrate you, but you may wish a number of times over the next two days that I did. You were commanded to take the bus and you flew instead. I hope you learn your lesson, so that I am not forced to punish you in a more permanent way.”
How did she know I flew? Am I being watched? Oh, hell! How stupid could I be? I e-mailed her just before leaving for the airport at ten AM. She knows I would have needed to board the bus much earlier to get here when I did. I have been such a fool thinking this was going to be fun. I was indeed going to hell and I will return only if she wants to put me through something far worse later.
What could she possibly do to me that would be a punishment compared to being catheterized, drinking urine for two days, being ass fucked by and giving head to some well hung black man I will never see, and then have my toe nails pulled out?
I could smell the rubbing alcohol used to sterilize the device after it was removed from boiling water and cooled. The design is over a hundred years old developed to teach young Victorian gentlemen that their private organ was not to be misused and abused. I think the sight of the thing would make a man keep his hands off. It is called Kali's teeth. It is a metal clam like device with very sharp spikes inside. The spikes press against the penis as the clam shell structure is closed and locked down. I think she used a small zip tie to keep it in place. The pricks pricked my prick even with my cock simi-erect. Then the true horror of the device came to light. The fear and pain brought uncontrollable arousal which enlarged my penis to full erection bringing agony and the fear of more agony. I began to wonder if the spikes would pierce holes in my shaft. Thoughts of leaking blood, piss, and semen from my cock for the rest of my life passed through my mind just as the spikes pressed into my cock.
Margaret put a stopper in the catheter tube and changed the bag to empty into my mouth. Even though she was careful, the slightest movement of my penis brought intolerable pain from both the spikes as they scratched and pricked the outside and the 24hr catheter rubbing my urethra on the inside.
“I think I’ll leave the stopper in while I pull the first few nails.”
If you like the story let me know.
Should you want to arrange your own visit, sorry I’m booked solid.
E-mail: b_d_s_m@HOTMAIL.COM
01.06.09