Part 1
I’M SCRUBBING THE soap scum from a scumbag’s bathtub when I hear a chime from my earpiece. Then Mistress’ voice: “Fucklips, please drop what you’re doing and hurry on over to the parlor in the front wing. Bring a restraint cart - one with a chair.” Mistress’ voice is calm and easy, but I know better than to think she’s not serious when she says to hurry. I tuck my rag and cleaning spray into the plastic basket I carry when I’m on janitorial duty.
I make for the door out of the suite, only for it to be blocked by Mr. Tom Galasso. He’s an old friend of Mistress, an honored guest at the mansion, and the aforementioned scumbag. “Done already, doll?” he asks, sardonic.
“No, sir,” I explain, “I’ve been called away on an urgent matter. I’ll be back to finish up as soon as I can, though.” My voice doesn’t betray my low opinion of the man.
He shakes his head. “That’s really very inconvenient. I plan to have company here shortly. What will they think if the shitter isn’t sparkling?”
“Sir, Mistress has ordered me to the parlor -”
He interrupts. “Oh, Mistress has, huh? Sounds like your problem, not mine. I’m not inclined to let you leave without finishing up here, so maybe you’d better convince me...”
I curse to myself. He’s more ornery than usual today. “I’ll convince you however you like, but I really have to hurry.”
He’s already dropped his pants. “Hurry up and get on your knees, then.”
Resigned, I set my basket aside, kneeling on the hardwood. Galasso steps forward and grabs my twin pigtails. I take his frankly below average cock in my mouth, tasting him as I use my tongue to tease his balls. He’s hard in an instant and begins to thrust in and out, aided by his grip on my hair.
This is my namesake skill for a reason. It takes Galasso well under five minutes to shoot his load and release me. Still, though, I know Mistress will notice the delay. I swallow his watery cum, to avoid offense, and get to my feet. He ignores me as I pick up my basket and rush into the hallway.
I can’t exactly sprint in two-inch heels, but I give it my best shot as I head to the central atrium. I use the handrail to avoid tripping in my hurtle down the stairs.
The big supply closet is just off the atrium, and I stop in to drop off my basket. I take off my apron and bonnet, too, which I mainly wear when on a janitorial shift. There are two restraint carts stored here. The one I take is the bigger, because aside from the table with shelves underneath to store various chains, ropes, cuffs, and similar equipment, a heavy wheelchair is built into one end. Anchors for restraints are set into its armrests, legrests, back and seat. I release the cart’s brake and push it up the hall, on the double.
The front wing’s parlor is right by the mansion’s front entrance. It’s where Mistress hosts most of her more casual visitors. I know she had a meeting scheduled for today with someone unaware of her “lifestyle,” because I and the other slaves were told to stay out of the downstairs of the front wing today. The abrupt change of plan is unusual, but I’m hardly about to question Mistress’ order.
When I arrive at the parlor, Mistress is sitting comfortably in her favorite armchair, sipping at a small glass of brandy. Her nonchalant attitude is at odds with the body lying at her feet - under her feet, actually. She’s using it as a footrest.
“Fucklips. Good afternoon. Took you long enough,” she says. She doesn’t ask me to explain, so there’s no room for me to offer Tom Galasso as an excuse.
“Yes, Mistress,” I say instead. “I’ve brought the restraint cart you asked for.”
“Good. Please strip this pathetic cunt and secure her to the cart.”
“Yes, Mistress.” As I approach, she moves her inch-high heel and I get a look at the woman on the ground. She’s under thirty, wearing businesslike clothes, about five and a half feet in height, her dark hair in disarray, spilling across the carpet. She’s conscious, but stunned; the bruises blossoming across half her face speak to why. I don’t know why Mistress beat the shit out of her guest, but it’s not like I’m about to ask her.
I kneel over the woman and set to work. She doesn’t resist as I roll her onto her stomach and work her arms out of her dark blazer, pulling it off. When I lift the hem of her silky blouse, though, she tries to say something. She winces in pain instead, but won’t lift her arms.
I glance at Mistress. She barely seems interested, but I know her order stands. I’m already in trouble for being late as it is. So I grab a pair of snub-nosed scissors from the cart and cut the blouse off. When she tries to block me with one hand, I hold it out of the way with my own as I cut through the silky fabric. I undo her bra as well, then turn her over and pull it off from the front. She’s slender, shapely, but her breasts are pretty small. She grabs at my wrist as I reach for her dark, knee-length skirt, but she’s not clearly not very strong even at full capacity. I stand up and grip her skirt from the bottom hem, sliding it off her legs to expose the black, control-top panties worn over her gray tights. I take off her flat-soled shoes and she tries to kick me, but doesn’t have an angle for it. The scissors serve for her tights, and then she’s in nothing but her bare skin.
Now to get her in the chair. Easier said than done. I wheel it closer and lock the brakes. I try to pick her up by the armpits, but even with her slight build I can’t lift her. I’m no bodybuilder myself. I avoid looking to Mistress, who could probably pick her up with one hand.
“Come on,” I whisper to her. “Easiest just to do what she says.” I try to help her get to her feet, but she won’t move. “Come on, just sit up here.”
She works through her injured jaw to speak. “Please don’t…” When I don’t relent she begs, “Just let me go, or call the cops or something.”
“It’s not in the cards,” I tell her. “Just get in the chair.” She doesn’t answer. I glance at Mistress, who’s beginning to show just a bit of annoyance - which means she’s very annoyed indeed. I really need to get this done. I grab a handful of the girl’s hair and pull on it. She screams in anger and brings her arms up to defend herself. It’s ineffectual and I’m able to get her standing. She tries to run but I still have a grip on her hair; she falls to her knees but I drag her back.
“Stop, stop!” she cries, but I already have her in the chair. The leather straps at her wrists and ankles take only a few seconds to buckle. I also secure straps that run from shoulder to ribs, forming an X across her chest, between her breasts. They may be small, but I can’t help noting their shapeliness. She may not line up with Mistress’ usual taste in girls, but she is quite pretty.
“Gag her,” orders Mistress, and I check the cart’s shelves for one. Mistress prefers to use a sort of hybrid of a whiffle and dildo gag that we usually just call a “dick-ball gag”: a rigid plastic ball held between the teeth, not too large, hollow and with several holes in it for ease of breathing, and with a hollow protrusion of hard rubber at the back, a couple inches long and not terribly girthy. It’s not nearly as uncomfortable as some of the punishment gags we have around, but it’s certainly effective at preventing coherent speech. I find it and put it between the girl’s lips. When I try to push it past her teeth, she resists. I’m in a hurry so I just grab one of her nipples and twist it hard. She chokes back a scream, and I get the gag in, securing its leather strap behind her head.
Mistress sets aside her glass and stands up. She’s well over six feet tall, with a cultivated physique and excellent grooming. I’m not so bitter about my service to her that I can’t admit she’s among the most striking women I’ve ever seen. She’s in her late thirties, with thick brown hair cropped short, a pointed chin, and dark, piercing eyes. Today she’s wearing casual trousers and a white shirt with collar and cuffs.
“Let’s take her to the dungeon, Fucklips,” she says, and leads the way out of the parlor. I hurry to keep up with her, pushing the cart, as she heads for the elevator next to the atrium. The woman tries to speak a few times but I have no idea what she’s trying to say. I’m pretty sure she’s crying, though.
The elevator is the old style where you have to haul a pair of gates closed before it will depart. It’s large and well-maintained, but slow; we only use it when the stairs aren’t an option. I open the gates and allow Mistress to step inside before I wheel in the cart. Then I close them and haul on the lever to get it moving downward.
The dungeon is in the concrete foundations of the mansion, the size of the whole north wing. The elevator opens into a small vestibule. Mistress presses her thumb to a scanner and unlocks the heavy door. It springs open and we pass through onto the main dungeon floor. It’s a wide space broken up with heavy, square columns linked by arches on each side. The ceiling in between the arches is wooden and fairly high; the floor is concrete with a few round drains. Easy to clean, I well know.
We aren’t alone here. Two weeks ago Mistress commissioned the abduction of a girl barely in her twenties. She’s tall and well-endowed, her muscles toned from her former job as an exotic dancer - much more in line with Mistress’ tastes than the girl strapped to the cart.
At the moment the slave-in-training, whom Mistress has named Tittymeat, has her neck and wrists locked in a pillory of heavy wood suspended from the ceiling. It’s not terribly uncomfortable for her as long as she remains on her feet, but I doubt she’s slept since I fastened it on her about thirty hours ago. A chain belt around her hips holds in place a butt plug, which vibrates just enough to keep her attention. Little chance she’ll cum from it, though. There’s also a steel plate that makes the arrangement something like a chastity belt. She’s equipped with a catheter, the tube running through a hole at the bottom of the belt and emptying into one of the drains in the floor.
Tittymeat watches us as I wheel the new girl to the spot Mistress indicates. She’s not gagged, but she knows better than to say a word. The two of them are now facing each other, with one square space between them formed by the pillars. I get a bad feeling that’s only confirmed when Mistress orders me to move one of the benches to the midpoint between them. I retrieve it from the wall against which various frames and racks are pushed. It’s simply a narrow, waist-high table whose surface is thinly padded. I bring it over as ordered.
Mistress nods. “Very good, Fucklips. You can get back to cleaning, as soon as I’ve punished you for your tardiness earlier. Strip and get on the bench.”
“Yes, sir.” I was expecting this, but I’m still practically shaking in my pumps as I loosen the laces of my shiny black leotard. It’s cut modestly, though its V-neck reveals a good bit of cleavage. It fits like a glove, which would normally make it pretty difficult to take off, but the side panels are cut out and replaced with criss-crossed lacing from hip to armpit which I can loosen. There are frills of stiff white linen at the sides of the lower hem, on the hips, suggesting a skirt. I slip off the shoulder straps and work my way out of it, sliding it down my legs and leaving it on the floor against a pillar.
I leave the rest of my clothes on; Mistress would have specified if she wanted me completely nude. The same linen frills are present around the top hem of my thigh-high black latex stockings. Garters decorated with white lace and tiny bows hold them up, connecting to the thin belt revealed when I remove my leotard. Apart from that I wear another latex garment, a combination collar and full-arm gloves. They cover my hands, arms, and shoulders, as well as most of my collarbone, but they stop short of my armpits and don’t cover my chest at all. The arms are in black, but the collar portion is all white. There’s an attachment at the front where a tiny red tie is clipped, narrow and hanging just three or four inches long between my breasts. My shoes are red, high-heeled pumps, and I wear my hair in two tight ponytails.
Bare-skinned from collar to thigh, I approach the bench with only a slight tremble. I straddle one end of it and sit, then bend forward at the waist such that my upper body is horizontal. My feet can touch the ground, giving me some extra stability on the narrow surface, but my weight rests squarely on the bench. The forward legs of the bench have built-in handholds, which I grasp to keep my arms out of the way.
In this way, my ass is presented in the perfect position for a good beating, or indeed a good fucking, if Mistress feels like it. In this case I’m oriented to give the new girl a perfect view of the proceedings. I’m facing Tittymeat, who seems to be taking some satisfaction as I avoid looking her in the eye. I am the one who bound her here, after all. In fact I’m often responsible for binding and cleaning her, as well as handling certain parts of her training. All at the behest of Mistress, of course, but I know the girl must loathe me as well. I certainly have no love for my four superiors among the other slaves.
Mistress approaches and puts a hand on my head as she pushes a hard rubber bit gag between my teeth. It has no strap, but I know if I let it fall out of my mouth things will get even worse for me. She stalks around behind me and moves his hand between my shoulder blades, pinning me down with enough weight I would be unable to move from the position I’m in.
Thus prepared, Mistress begins to slap my ass with her open palm. It’s slow and gentle at first, covering a wide area of my buttocks and upper thighs, getting the blood flowing. She appraises for a moment, then starts to hit harder, alternating between sides at random. My legs jerk slightly with each stroke, but her big hand on my back prevents me from actually being able to jump.
After a couple minutes, Mistress’ hand is starting to seriously sting. I’m biting hard on the gag in an effort to resist the pain. When she stops hitting me and takes her other hand off me, I’m relieved for a moment, but she doesn’t tell me to get up. Instead, she retrieves a paddle of heavy wood. The first stroke takes me by surprise and I yelp, almost dropping the gag. It’s distributed across a larger area than her hand, so it doesn’t sting as badly, but the force of it ripples through my whole body.
Mistress varies her timing so I’m often taken by surprise, my feet leaving the ground and a muffled grunt escaping my throat. Twenty-odd strokes and I’m flinching just anticipating the next impact. The last few have my whole ass searing as I writhe in place, moaning even between hits, tears filling my eyes.
Another pause, and I hope once again it’s over. I’m relieved when, instead of another implement, she applies a liberal amount of cold lube between my ass cheeks. I manage to relax enough for her to slip her fat cock into me. She’s been silent, but now she makes satisfied sounds in time with her pumping. She drags me upright by the hair and moves his hands to my front, feeling up my tits and crotch. I pant with the pain of the penetration as well as a desperate need for orgasm that I know won’t be fulfilled. It goes on for several minutes before she fills me with her hot cum and slips out.
I fall back on my stomach, panting hard, as she steps away. “You’re done, slave. Get dressed and get back to cleaning.” I’m spent, but I know if I take too long to return to work she’ll consider me not to have learned my lesson. I retrieve my leotard and pull it on, doing up the laces with shaky hands. I can feel her cum running down my leg, but I know better than to clean it off in her sight.
As I exit the dungeon using my own thumbprint, Mistress is already sending a voice message to Tiffany and Mercedes, telling them to come down here and give her a hand with the new girl. They’re her two favorite slaves, ranking above me and able to give me orders just as Mistress can. Both are huge bitches, of course.
I take the stairs and return to the supply closet, putting on my apron and getting my cleaning supplies. I take a moment to dry my eyes before heading back to the suite where Tom Galasso is staying. His door is shut, so I move on to the neighboring rooms, going over every inch for dust.
On most days I would be thinking of little other than cleaning and the tasks ahead of me, but Mistress’ new acquisition of today has me thinking of my own past. Just a year and a half ago I was a simple dental hygienist. Mistress happened to have an appointment with the dentist I worked for and took notice of me. That was all it took for my life to be completely upended.
TO BE MORE fair to Mistress than she probably deserves, I was quite noticeable. Beautiful, even if I say so myself. I even did some modeling before I finished dental school, so Mistress and I aren’t the only ones who think so. I was nearly six feet tall, subtly clocky but in an interesting way. My thick, russet hair was only shoulder-length at this point, because it’s thick enough that it’s hard to take care of even that long. I had a slender figure, although I’d put on enough fat in the last couple years that I had B or C cups and a shapely butt. My eyes were a deep hazel and I wore glasses with circular lenses.
A couple weeks after I worked on Mistress’ teeth, I was on my evening jog, crossing a footbridge over a highway. At the exit onto the street, a reedy man in his fifties or sixties stopped me, indignant. He berated me for my style of dress, how immodest girls these days were, and so forth. I was wearing a fairly typical athletic bra and running shorts, and his voice was high pitched and nasal, so it was more amusing and surprising than alarming.
But he was only the distraction. In the few moments I was standing there trying not to laugh, a second man stepped out from around the corner and moved toward me with threatening intent. I stepped back in alarm - right into the arms of the third, who’d snuck up behind me. I kicked my legs and tried to reach my pepper spray, but the two larger men held me still. The older man took the opportunity to slip a canvass hood over my head and tighten it around my neck. Despite my desperate thrashing, they manage to carry me to their van without too much trouble. Less than thirty seconds after crossing the bridge they were peeling out into the street with me in the back.
Months later I would gather that the three were contract kidnappers, a family business by the name of “Bergen and Sons.” Magnus Bergen was driving the van; his two burly sons, Aaron and Rick, had me well in hand. Aaron sat on my legs and held me down while Rick cuffed my wrists behind my back. He cuffed my ankles too, linking the chains for a loose sort of hogtie. Meanwhile, Aaron was already cutting off my shorts and panties with a pair of blunt-tipped scissors. Only then did they flip me face-up and take the bag off my head.
“Shut her up already!” Magnus called from the front seat as we pulled onto the highway. I had been yelling for help through the bag, but now Aaron shoved a wad of cloth into my open mouth. It was my own panties and, for good measure, the crotch of my spandex shorts. I choked from the size and the salty taste of sweat, but he was already tying a cord around my head to secure it in place.
I was struggling frantically but fruitlessly. I couldn’t comprehend what was happening. Just minutes ago I had been well within the boundaries of my daily routine, and now suddenly I was helpless, with no idea where we were going or what would happen to me. I thrashed, trying to escape my cuffs with no result except bruises around my wrists and ankles that would take days to heal.
They finished cutting away my clothes, leaving only my shoes and socks. I tugged uselessly at the cuffs for the rest of the thirty-minute drive. I couldn’t see out the windows, but I could tell we were on a highway for about half the distance, and on winding mountain roads for the remainder.
When we arrived at Mistress’ hillside abode, the brothers separated the cuffs on my wrists from those on my ankles so I could walk, and bundled me out the back of the van. I blinked at the sudden sunlight, but I saw opportunity. I attempted to headbutt Rick in the nose, but he dodged easily and planted his knee full force into my stomach. As I doubled over, he caught my head between his knees. Aaron grabbed my arms, already held behind my back with handcuffs, and secured them further with a leather strap around my elbows. They ignored my choking and retching against the gag as I tried to catch my breath.
“What’s the point in struggling at this point, you little idiot?” Aaron sighed. He grabbed my hair and pulled me upright, using his other hand to slap my exposed ass and give it a quick caress. I jerked at the waist, but only accomplished a painful tug of my hair. When I held still, he let go of me and the two brothers grabbed at my shoulders, leading me away.
I blinked away my tears and got a look at my surroundings. We were in a wooded area in the mountains, bugs and birds singing around us, oblivious to my despair. The brothers marched me up a long driveway until the red brick walls of the mansion loomed over us. There was a sitting area on the front porch, behind whitewashed columns, where Mistress sat awaiting my delivery. Tiffany was there too, massaging her shoulders from behind.
She got up and strode down the front steps to greet Magnus. I was immediately struck by her height, and by her dark eyes. “Excellent work as always,” she said. “Bring her around to the side door.” The pair led the way through the garden while Aaron and Rick frog-marched me along behind.
Tiffany trailed along at the rear of the group. She was quite striking as well, with a full figure and hair dyed bubblegum-pink that fell across her shoulders and nearly to her waist. She wore a number of golden bracelets, anklets, rings, and necklaces; white wedge sandals; and a string of large beads that passed through her legs. It linked heart-shaped rings that sat at her tailbone and pubis that were connected with a few thin leather cords, burying itself between her lips and cheeks and rubbing against her as she walked.
She was also wearing a garment we usually just called a boob-loop. We wore them commonly, since they appealed to Mistress’ tastes. It consisted of a strip of fabric, usually semi-transparent, attached at both ends to the front of a metal collar. It passed over the breast and under the nipple, leaving a good deal of underboob on display, and passed under the armpit and across the back, just under the shoulders.
As we passed around to the side of the mansion, I wrenched my attention from the two beautiful and sinister people I’d just encountered. I dropped to my knees, going limp. Maybe I could pull off some trick and get away, but if nothing else I wasn’t about to make this easy on my captors. The round, variegated round pebbles of the garden path were hard against my bare skin as I sprawled to the ground, pretending to have fainted or something.
Mistress didn’t notice for a moment, but the frustrated cries of the two brothers alerted her. I heard her footsteps approach. She considered the situation for a moment before crouching down and delivering a hard slap to my ass. I flinched reflexively but stayed still otherwise in hopes she’d think it was an unconscious reaction. But she only spanked me again, harder this time. After a third, I cried out, obviously awake.
“Get up,” she told me flatly, and slapped my ass again. I protested through my gag, but she repeated her command and slapped me again. I scrambled to stand with my arms locked behind my back and suffered two even harder slaps before I at least managed to flip onto my back. It didn’t stop her; she switched to slapping me across my naked tits, making me bite hard into my gag. It was several more seconds before I got my footing, by which point both my ass and tits were burning with pain.
“Are you finished playing the idiot?” Mistress demanded when I was standing again. She stared at me for a moment before she took a half-step toward me and I realized she was waiting for a response. I nodded hastily, and she backed off. “Come on and bring her, then.” Aaron and Rick grabbed my shoulders and we continued toward the back of the house as a group.
There was a ravine toward the south with a slope down toward it, with about a third of the basement level being above-ground. We stopped at the nondescript side door that was the shortest route to the dungeon from outside.
Mistress handed Magnus a small package. “Your fee,” she said. “Our business is concluded, but the three of you would be welcome to stay a while and watch while we get started on breaking her in.” I moaned through the cloth in my mouth, but no one took notice.
“Just watch?” asked Rick, grinning.
“We’ll see.”
They assented to stay, and our group filed through the door. A short hallway led to the anteroom, where Mistress used the fingerprint lock to allow us into the dungeon. Candy, Mercedes, and Trixie, Mistress’ other three slaves, arrived just behind us. Tiffany showed the Bergen family to a small round table where they could sit and watch, taking their orders for drinks. Mistress sat with them as well.
Meanwhile Candy bent down to peel off my shoes and socks. I aimed a kick at her, but she blocked it with a hand and I didn’t have the leverage to do any damage. Trixie came forward and, reaching around from behind me, grabbed my nipples, giving them a good twist. “Simmer down, fresh meat. No use fighting it now,” she answered my wordless protest.
Candy and Trixie sat me down on the stainless steel toilet near one wall. “Go ahead and piss,” said Trixie. I wanted to flee, to fight, but even if I didn’t have my legs shackled and my arms behind my back all I could do was sit in place and tremble in fear.
“Give her a hand,” said Mistress. Trixie obeyed, kneeling beside me. She put one hand on my lower back and, with the other, felt my lower abdomen. She found the seat of my bladder and pressed hard with her fingers. I choked on a sob as the piss flowed out. Once I’d started, I couldn’t stop.
When I finished, Trixie and Candy helped me stand up, forcing me to take a step forward before they pushed me to my knees. Then Candy took hold of my hair, pushing my head down and holding it to the cold concrete floor so that I was leaning forward.
“Spread your legs,” Trixie said, putting her foot between my knees and kicking lightly.
Teary-eyed, ass held high, I did as she said. A hose connected to the back of the toilet was capped with an enema nozzle, which she pushed gently but firmly into my asshole. I tried to stop her with my hands, but Candy grabbed the strap between my elbows and pulled it upward. My squirming and muffled wail as the cold water pumped into my bowels prompted her to pull my hair and then lightly thump my head against the floor. “Quiet down, would you?” she muttered.
I did my best to keep still, but soon I’m just about bursting. “Don’t spill a drop,” Trixie said as she pulled the nozzle out, “or you’ll be cleaning it up with your tongue.” They picked me up and sat me back down on the toilet, and I let go, relieved. I felt myself flush from head to toe at realizing how many people were watching me shit my guts out, but the sense of relief was just as great.
“The look on her face when she stood up,” Magnus commented from the peanut gallery. “Just precious.”
“You’re right,” Mistress agreed. “Go ahead and give her another, girls,” she called. I didn’t even try to protest as they bent me over on the floor again and pumped me full of cold water.
I made an effort to keep my face blank as they sat me down once more, but I’m sure my tearful eyes gave me away. I’d been trying not to cry, so that I could breathe through my nose, but I hadn’t entirely succeeded.
Candy and Trixie moved me over to the bidet for good measure. Then, having thoroughly cleaned me out, they marched me over to a frame of metal and smooth wood that was placed near the middle of the space. They laid me down on the plank in the center, long as my neck to my tailbone, straps over my sternum and waist keeping me supine. My bound arms hung off one end, on either side of a small wooden head rest, and my shackled legs dangled off the other.
“Is she breathing all right?” Mercedes, standing nearby, wanted to know. Candy took it as the order it was intended to be, and took the wad of cloth out of my mouth.
I took a few gasping breaths. “Get off me, get away -” I started to yell, but Candy was already shoving one of Mistress’ custom-made “dick-ball gags” between my teeth. It wasn’t comfortable, but at least I could get enough air again.
Candy then removed the shackles on my ankles. I tried to kick at her again, but she avoided it easily, and I got a slap to the tit from Mercedes for my trouble. Candy and Trixie each took an ankle and buckled a new cuff around it. These were made of leather, and hung by heavy cords from the large square frame at the end of the plank I was laying on. When Candy turned a crank at one side of the frame and my legs were hoisted into the air, I realized what the point of the frame was.
I thrashed against my bonds, trying to break free. All I could move was my head, barely, and I could kick my legs a little, but there was a wide area between them that I couldn’t reach at all. My torso was held fast and my arms were entirely useless.
“Calm down,” Candy said quietly, but at the same time she was closing a clamp over my left nipple. I shrieked even as she did the same on the right, the two devices linked by a thin chain. “What do you think you’re going to do? Even if you could stand up, there’s nowhere for you to go.”
Trixie, meanwhile, pulled down another wound-up cord from the point of the frame that hung over my chest. She attached the end to the chain between my nipple clamps, then wound the small crank, ratcheting it until the clamps were upright, but not really pulling against me. If I moved even a little, though, they tugged on my nipples, which also caused the clamps to tighten. So I finally stopped struggling against my bondage, for the time being at least.
Now Mistress got up from the table and came over to where I was secured, hard-soled shoes tapping on the concrete floor. I scowled at her, trembling and with tears in my eyes, as she stood between my elevated legs.
“Good work, girls,” she said. “Hand me that bottle, would you?” She met my eyes as Trixie handed it to her. “And you - I forget your name, so I’m just going to call you Fucklips, how does that sound? Welcome to my humble abode, Fucklips.” My biting reply was incomprehensible.
“So now it’s time for me to give you a little welcoming gift.” Mistress squirted a liberal amount of lube right into my exposed asshole. I moaned, but there was no way I could stop her. Without further ado, she pulled her cock out of her pants and slid it between my cheeks.
I had only ever had anal a couple times, and it was hard enough to get it in even when I wanted to. There was no way in hell I would ever let this woman fuck me, no matter how hot she was.
But of course Mistress couldn’t care less. She signaled Mercedes, who held a hand over my mouth and a small vial right under my nose. It took me by surprise, and my gasp caused me to inhale the drug. My head went fuzzy and my body went limp. It only lasted twenty or thirty seconds, but that was enough time for Mistress to slide into me.
She paused to savor the moment. Then she met my eyes again, gloating. I looked away, but she snapped her fingers. “Look at me, Fucklips. Look me in the eyes.” On cue, Trixie turned the crank once for the cord that connected to my nipple chain. I gasped again at the sudden tug, and did my best to make eye contact. Satisfied, Mistress began to fuck me, pumping in and out, slow but not at all gentle.
As she thrust deep into me, I was overcome by pain, humiliation, and yes, ecstasy. I would have arched my back if the strap across my waist had any play to it at all. I rolled my eyes upward, prompting another snap of her fingers and another turn of the crank. I yelped and opened them wide, staring at her. His expression was intense, frightening, her eyes piercing me like spears. More than anything I wanted to look away - but even that was denied to me. Between the aftermath of the inhalants and how very much I didn’t want to be here, I think I had some kind of out-of-body experience.
But it was my body that Mistress was interested in, and she had her fun for several more minutes before she shuddered in orgasm, cumming inside me. She sighed, content, and pulled out, giving my ass a good slap just for fun. It brought me back to earth, and I let out a long moan as I felt how badly her girth had hurt me and the firm pressure of the nipple clamps tugging at my flesh. I started to sob, tears streaming down my cheeks.
“Oh, don’t cry, Fucklips,” Mistress said lightly. “You were a very good girl. Good job.” She slapped my ass again, even harder. Then she went back over to the table with Magnus and his sons. “How was that for a show?” I heard her ask.
“She’s quite a beauty,” Magnus said in his stupid, high-pitched voice. “You sure can pick ‘em. Maybe you can do some contract work for us, scouting?”
“We can discuss it, I suppose,” Mistress said. “Now then, her asshole belongs to me, but perhaps the three of you would like a turn with her mouth?”
“God, yes,” Aaron or Rick - I couldn’t tell by the voice - cut in.
Mercedes shoved a plug into my ass to keep Mistress’ cum there. Then she knelt down to speak to me quietly. “Alright, girl, you’re going to be giving some blowjobs. You might be tempted to bite, but I’m warning you, it would be a very bad idea. If these guys so much as feel your teeth, we’ll put more tension on your nipples. And if you were to do any permanent damage, I’m quite sure that Mistress would send you to have all your teeth pried out. She wouldn’t hesitate, I can assure you. And you would be unlikely to get any sort of anesthetic, too. So be sure to behave yourself, okay?” Having delivered her dire warning, she unfastened my gag and pried it out of my mouth.
“You’re all fucking crazy!” I spat, but a half-crank of the cable attached to my nipples and a finger held to my lips shut me up. A different lever served to tilt the plank I was laying on, putting my shoulders eight or nine inches below my hips. They removed the headrest too, so my head just hung backward, nearly upside down.
Rick came over and stood beside where I was bound. “Can I go ahead then?” he asked Mistress. She must have nodded, because Rick pulled his dick out and stood over me. I had my mouth closed, so he nodded to Trixie, who turned the crank to pull at my nipples. I yelled in pain and frustration and acquiesced.
He put his quite average-sized dick in my mouth. I had never given a blowjob upside down before, but I did my best to stroke his clit with my tongue and his shaft with my lips. Three times, my teeth brushed his skin and I suffered another turn on the ratchet for it. I got the job done, though. He came a lot, in my mouth and on my face and chest.
Aaron went next. His dick was longer, and he kept shoving it in, making me gag hard. By the time he shot cum right down my throat, my nipple clamps had been ratcheted seven more times and I was writhing in pain, as much as I could in my position. When he pulled out I panted, unable to catch my breath.
My last client was Magnus, for whom they brought over a sturdy stool for him to stand on so he could reach my mouth. His dick was unimpressive and he got off quickly, but my involuntary twitches of pain still earned me two extra ratchets. He shot his load on my face, most of it getting in my hair, and stepped down to the floor, making little contented sounds.
I, meanwhile, was groaning at the dull pain emanating from my nipples. I wasn’t paying much attention to things happening across the room, but I was aware that the Bergens were excusing themselves and leaving.
A minute later, Mistress said from nearby, “You performed adequately, Fucklips, but you’ll need some training before you live up to your name. Unfortunately, your attitude today was severely lacking, so I’m afraid your accommodations will be, too. Until tomorrow, sweet Fucklips.” She gave some instructions to one of the other slaves, but I didn’t hear. Then she left the dungeon, followed closely by Tiffany and Mercedes.
“Please, please,” I begged as they left, “get the clamps off. Get them off, let me go, please stop this!”
Trixie and Candy took no notice, but one of them did take the clamps off me. I screamed shrilly at the renewed pain that came from the blood flowing back into my nipples. They undid the bindings at my ankles, waist, and chest as well, and helped me stand. They released my arms from behind my back, too.
I finally had an opportunity to fight back, with no cords or chains to stop me. But I was so shaken that I just stood there trembling. Maybe I would have taken the chance if I’d had a few seconds longer, but Trixie was already sliding my arms into an off-white straitjacket of a material that was something like elasticized canvas.
It was rough against my skin, but it had more stretchiness to it than cotton typically did. It covered the front of my torso from collar to the bottom of my ribcage, but with a large, teardrop-shaped hole that my breasts hung out of - only a wide strap that ran vertically between my breasts and split into a T-shape across my collarbone held the two sides together at the apex of the cutout. Straps at the top, center, and bottom of the back held it closed while leaving my back mostly bare. The vertical strap continued past the bottom hem, splitting into a Y-shape dangling from the front, which Trixie fed through my legs to attach to the back. It left my navel bare and my crotch mostly uncovered, but it kept the straitjacket from riding up, as well as holding in the small buttplug.
At that point, with the jacket on me but my arms still free, even if my hands were covered by the sleeves, I finally summoned the wherewithal to fight the two of them. I aimed a quick punch at Trixie’s jaw as I body-checked Candy. Candy stumbled, but Trixie blocked the hit and easily kicked my legs out from under me. I fell to one knee and she kicked me again; I fell to the floor.
“You really need to learn some manners, new girl,” Candy muttered as the two of them knelt down and rolled me onto my back. Each took an arm and folded it across my body, to cross under my bare breasts. Then they sat me up so they could wind the sleeves around behind me and buckle them there.
I started crying and wailing, which only annoyed them. Trixie retrieved a hood made of white rubber and pulled it over my head, threading my hair through a small hole at the top. It covered my entire head except my nose, mouth, and chin. Losing my sight only had me wailing louder, though. It took Trixie, her voice raised so I could hear her through the rubber, to quiet me. “Shut up or I’ll gag you, and beat your ass for good measure!”
So apart from the occasional whimper, I was silent as the two slaves stuffed me into a cage of hard plastic. It was only three feet high and wide, and not much more than that in length either. It was too small to sit up straight or to lie down, and my bound arms only made it more difficult to find something like a comfortable resting position. “Drinking tube at the top edge,” Trixie said loudly just before they closed it, leaving me totally isolated.