Love Lost

Aug 18, 2013

Once in a while, I admit, I can be particularly hard on slaves whose only crime is to have fallen utterly for my charms and found themselves totally addicted to me. It's just in my nature I suppose to want to torment mercilessly those who most crave my company and who constantly and pathetically beg for my attention. There is something deliciously sadistic about making a poor male first cry with frustration and then sink into the depths of sadness by denying him the drug that he so desperately needs: i.e. a little attention from me. In the end, of course, such slaves are willing to accept any torment whatsoever and to face their greatest fears just to earn the right to be in the same room as me for a while. It is all a necessary part of their training to become the purest of submissives, those who will bend instantly and absolutely to my will with no thought of ever receiving a reward.

That is why I found myself last night almost feeling sorry for one wretch who was suffering greatly at my hands in the Hanwell dungeons. Please note that a said I 'almost' felt sympathy: after all what sort of a Mistress would I be if I changed tack willy-nilly just because my sub was nearing every one of his limits in one prolonged and tortuous session? No, it is a tough job sometimes, but I have to steel my emotions and strengthen my resolve to live up to his expectation of no mercy and no respite from whatever painful and distressing game happens to have taken my fancy. In this case the reason for his hopeless pleas for release were that I was working my way through a selection of my toughest and best-loved rubber and leather hoods. With a lengthy session ahead of us I was able to take my time and encase his head in some of the most terrifying of my vast collection of the tightest and most suffocating of headware. I took especial care to browse through the entire collection, including some old favourites that have not seen the light of day in a while because most slaves find them too hard and claustrophobic to bear. That was something I had no need to worry about with this slave who had already sold his soul to the devil ( or to me actually... which is pretty much the same thing) 
With subbie bound hand and foot in an all-encasing leather body bag tied tightly to my bondage bench, I hung the pick of my hoods up on hooks above his head. It was delightful to see the fear in his eyes as each one took its place on the row of hooks on the beam - each more frightening than the last and coming with the certain knowledge that all would be used and all would be kept in place for as long as I desired. He could not move other than to obediently lift his head in order that the first hood could be tightly laced around him. With one tiny breathing hole (so easily blocked with my fingers) I assured him that he would be wearing it for a while and that panic was probably an emotion best avoided for the sake of his own sanity. How exciting it was to then whisper in his ear that this was by far the easiest of the five hoods I had picked and far worse was to come. The next couple of hours passed in a whirl of fun for me and what must have been an eternity of terror for him. Just when he thought the breath play could not get more intense,... it did. Just when he thought he could not bear another moment of my cruelty... he could. just when he prayed for one hood to be removed it was... only to be instantly replaced by something far worse. I could happily have continued all night but I noticed that his original pleas and screams of fear had become more muted as he gave up all hope and simply became a gibbering, drooling wreck. There is a point in all torments when the fear is so great that the subbie shuts down and further distress becomes almost counter-productive. It was time to move on.
I was gratified to see that slave gave no hint of a sigh of relief when I mentioned that his hood ordeal would shortly be over. He has learned from painful experience that moving on from one game with me inevitably means that another is about to start. In the words of the song... 'Things can only get better' NOT. What followed were several more hours in intense bondage,  copious piss drinking, breath play. cock and ball torture and electrics pumped up higher and higher as I reduced this once proud man to a pathetic and humiliated wreck: just the way I like my slaves to be. Perhaps after all, I must have a secret little sympathy gene tucked away where none but me can find it because in the end I felt he had earned some form of relief, if only to allow his swollen and tortured balls to regain their normal size and shape before I dismissed him from my presence. I gleefully informed him that a ruined orgasm was coming his way and picked up my trusty Magic Wand vibrator. When I saw the hopeless resigned look in his eyes at the prospect of being made to spunk with no trace of sexual pleasure, I was suddenly in two minds about which way the session would end. A powerful bollock draining spasm with an orgasm to match... or a slow and prolonged dribble into the condom with no release from frustration. Hmmm... now which way should I go? Bookmark and Share
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