The Drip Feed Experience

Jan 9, 2013

One of my slaves was in hooded heaven this morning as we carried on where we left off in the last session by working my way through my entire collection of scores of restrictive hoods in rubber, leather, plastic and even metal to test out his devotion and submission to my every whim. The piece de resistance was my black metal ‘man in the iron mask’ hood with matching metal ball mittens which normally live in one of my cells, but which I employed just to kick-start his journey into the magical land of claustrophobia. Pictures on my twitter feed show how he was standing exposed and vulnerable with his metal-clad head fixed to the electric winch in my suspension room and his arms stretched akimbo. Of course, being the kind mistress that I am, I couldn’t leave him with just the metal encasing his face: I had to first smother him underneath the metal skin in a tight fitting leather isolation hood. It does have two small nostril holes to get fresh air so I thought it might provide interesting sensations for him to be breathing that air from inside a metal ball. Sometimes I surprise myself with what a thoughtful mistress I can be for my most devoted followers.

I was really enjoying the sight of Arnold stretched out, hooded and suffering, especially after I attached the Venus wanking machine to swell and tease his cock inside its silicon sucking tube, but all good things must come to an end and I eventually let him down; purely in order to strap him down as securely as possible on my bondage throne. He seemed strangely reluctant, at first, to sit back in the chair (which could have been related to the fact that I had already inserted a suitable sized electrical plug into his rear) but soon obeyed orders and sat quietly as I re-covered his head in my worn and fragrant tights, then covered those with a heavy rubber hood and finally added a thin plastic bag and a considerable quantity of tap/e wound round and round his face. I think he most of all enjoys my counting game that I play with him once his head is thoroughly wrapped. He takes a breath and I count to a special number before letting him breathe once again. Of course, the problem for my slave is that he never knows which special number I might pick – one, two or twenty-six – what fun we have together!

One should never praise one’s slaves – after all we mistresses always expect total obedience at all times, whatever the circumstances – but I must say that this slave did perform well in overcoming his fears to accept all of the torments I inflicted. I had such a whale of a time that I decided to give him an especial reward in my medical room. Strapped down to my medical bench, I soon had various tubes and masks and electrics in place, including the special treat of a full enema bag of my nectar, suspended over his head and feeding a steady drip-drip-drip of house champagne into his mouth as my all-powerful vibrator brought him to a shattering climax. His post-orgasmic delight was tempered by my demand that he finish drinking the entire pint of urine before I would consider his release from bondage. Oh, and I do hate the idea of used, spunk-filled condoms littering up my waste-bins. Where else could I possibly dispose of the sample he had provided? I think, You may know me well enough by now, Dear Reader, to guess the answer!

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