Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 FANTASIE du JOUR - THE DUNGEON NEXT DOOR

   by kinkabella - Copyright 2005

   [FF/F; BDSM]

   My life used to be as ordinary and uneventful as that of any of my other
neighbors.  It wasn't that I was bored or anything.  Far from it, but I
didn't know any other life beyond the routine my husband and I had drifted
into after ten years of marriage.  My husband (a bank executive) provided
me with everything I imagined I needed to be happy.  I had a large,
comfortable house filled with fine furnishings and trinkets collected from
our annual vacations overseas.  My wardrobes were filled with stylish
designer dresses from Italy and handcrafted leather shoes from Spain.  The
BMW sports car in the garage had been a birthday gift from my husband to
compliment his BMW saloon.  (The His and Hers license plates were also his
idea.) At thirty-five years of age, I kept myself looking good for my
husband with regular workouts at the gym and Friday tennis with the girls
at our Country Club.  We usually dined out at least once a week and
occasionally we'd even go dancing or to see a movie together.  Then Emma
moved in next door.  Little did I know at the time just how profound an
effect she would have on my life?

   From the moment I first laid eyes on Emma, I knew she was different.  I
wasn't the only person in my neighborhood to notice either.  Emma quickly
became the hottest topic of conversation with my tennis girlfriends at the
Country Club with gossip ranging from the way she always wore leather and
bold make-up, even when at the supermarket, to the frequent procession of
men who visited her at all hours of the day and night.  She hadn't been
there a month before all my friends were convinced she was a prostitute and
I became the one nominated to spy on her and find out everything I could
about her.  It was an assignment I undertook reluctantly.

   Despite Emma's appearances, she always smiled and said hello to me
whenever she saw me.  Being the sort of person I am I naturally returned
her greetings in the same pleasant manner in which they were invariably
given and I quickly came to feel guilty about reporting her activities to
my girlfriends at the club.  Throughout this whole period of time I also
began to feel there was something else about Emma that I couldn't quite
define.  It evoked strange thoughts and led to a curiosity about her that I
knew I couldn't satisfy unless I met her properly.  It was a curiosity that
I didn't tell anybody about.  Not even my husband, although he seemed oddly
unaware Emma even existed.

   The spying I had done on Emma proved useful when I eventually worked up
the courage to go next door and properly introduce myself.  Every Monday at
noon, regularly as clockwork, a well-dressed elderly man would visit Emma.
He would disappear inside Emma's house and emerge precisely one hour later
before walking briskly back to his car and disappearing again.  To this day
I can still vividly remember how nervous I was about visiting.  I had
waited until 1:15 pm and then, taking every precaution not to be seen by
any of my other neighbors, crept up to Emma's front door and rang the
doorbell.

   Emma's welcome was disarmingly warm and friendly.  It wasn't the only
thing that caught me by surprise.  I had half-expected to see Emma standing
there in a negligee and feather boa, smoking a cigarette in a long-stemmed
holder -- the stereotypical working girl taking a break.  But instead she
was wearing what I'd always seen her wear -- black leather from head to
toe, except for her feet.  My eyes nearly popped out of my head and I
couldn't help laughing at the sight of her shoes.  She was wearing fluffy
slippers fashioned after Sylvester The Cat!  Emma playfully scolded me for
laughing before she joined me in laughter and explained they were the most
comfortable footwear she owned.  I instantly felt strangely at ease with
her and knew exactly what she meant.  Straight away she invited me in and
urged me to make myself comfortable.

   The mental image I'd painted of the inside of Emma's house was also
shattered.  Except for the rich, vibrant tones of the walls and exotic
tapestry rugs on the floor, the look and feel of the surroundings were
identical to those inside my house.  In fact, it almost could have been the
inside of any other house in the neighborhood.  The furnishings were fine
antiques and the art works hanging on the wall appeared to be originals --
mostly oil paintings in the Orientalist style.  All in all, the impression
wasn't that I'd just stepped inside a brothel.  I felt an urge to run to my
girlfriends and tell them just how wrong they had been about Emma, but
right there and then, my friendships with them suddenly felt empty and
hollow.  For all the money they had (most of them had been secretaries or
nurses before marrying rich husbands), Emma clearly had more style and
refinement than all of them combined.  Emma's poise and confident manner
also shone when she served up some savories and red wine and we chatted
like old friends in the hours that followed.

   It quickly became apparent that Emma, whose frankness and openness about
things was a refreshing change to the conceit and trivial-ness of my
Country Club friends, would tell me the truth if I asked her what she did
for a living.  I resisted all urges to ask, however she came right out and
told me anyway.  What she told me didn't immediately register.  It was like
she had suddenly lapsed into some alien language and I just sat there,
polite smile frozen on my face, blinking uncomprehendingly at her.  Emma
smiled back at me and waited for my next response.  I tried to mimic her
casual indifference, as if to suggest I had met dozens of Dominatrix in the
past, but it was a charade I knew Emma would see right through.  It also
didn't hide my curiosity that by now had been thoroughly piqued.

   We talked for the rest of the afternoon about nothing else.  Emma talked
at length about the distinctions between what she did and prostitution,
emphasizing how she never had sex with any of her clients although she did,
she said, occasionally provide female submissives for that purpose.  It was
a revelation that struck a strange chord with me.  Any curiosity I had
about what Emma did for a living suddenly paled by comparison with the new
curiosity I suddenly had about what it would be like to be one of those
submissives -- a sex slave.  I distinctly recall I blushed a deep,
embarrassed shade of red, as if Emma could read all my thoughts.  It was an
epiphany.  Emma and I quickly became firm, albeit secret friends and I
would sneak visits to her at every possible opportunity.  Our conversations
rarely returned to the subject of sex slaves but my daydreams and fantasies
revolved around nothing else.

   I visited Emma many times in the months following without ever seeing
her dungeon.  She had mentioned she had a fully furnished dungeon located
in the basement but that was all she would say about it.  As much as I
enjoyed Emma's friendship and conversation, I began to feel a peculiar,
deeper attraction to her.  It wasn't exactly a sexual attraction even
though the roles she played in my fantasies where she directed her clients
to do all manner of perverse things to me invariably aroused me in a very
sexual way.  I began to feel a compelling need to please Emma -- to return
some of the kind regards she always showed me whenever I visited.  Then one
day, after about six months, something happened that profoundly changed my
life.

   Emma and I had been talking about something (I forget what) when,
without even realizing I was saying it, I called her by the name she told
me all her clients called her: Mistress.  It was impossible to retract once
said, especially when she gave me a look that spoke volumes about the
pleasure she clearly found in being addressed that way.  Thinking back to
that moment still causes my mouth to go dry and a fluttering in my stomach.
It could have gone two ways after that.  I could have pretended not to say
it or I could, as I did, sink deeper into the luxurious feeling of desire
-- a craving to surrender -- that had already enveloped me.  A voice
literally called in my head: seize the moment.

   I was consciously aware of the tone of my voice but couldn't stop myself
from speaking like a little girl when I asked Mistress Emma to show me her
dungeon.  Her knowing grin remains etched forever in my recollections of
that day and without hesitating, she agreed but with one condition.  "No
little girls are allowed to set foot in my dungeon unless they're fully
undressed," she said.  "Especially not pretty little ones like you."

   The playful compliment, especially given the fact I was hardly a little
girl by any stretch of the imagination, caused me to blush nearly as much
as the thought of undressing for Mistress.  I instinctively knew not to
question Mistress Emma's rules but it still took an agonizing moment to
decide how much I really wanted to see inside her dungeon.  My heart
pounded heavily in my chest; my pulse raced so quickly I could barely
breathe or speak.  I stared at a spot on the floor between Mistress' feet,
aware of her patient gaze towards me but unable to look her in the eye.  I
had no idea what I was supposed to say next and any words that I tried to
form became frozen in my throat.  Thankfully, Mistress had the uncanny
ability to read my thoughts.  With a tone of voice that was both comforting
and softly demanding, she told me to go up to the first bedroom at the top
of the stairs and undress for her.

   Despite what Mistress told me to do, I felt a rush of relief to be
finally given my first instructions.  It seemed strangely easier when I
rationalized what I was agreeing to do by thinking "I'm only doing this
because Mistress has ordered me." I turned on my heel without looking back
and with small, quick but nervous steps, I headed off to obey my Mistress.

   The bedroom was probably the smallest in the house and it was bare of
furniture except for a divan positioned along the wall opposite the
built-in wardrobes.  I avoided looking at myself in the mirrored doors of
the wardrobe for fear of seeing a person I no longer recognized as me.  The
brief, reflex glance in its direction was enough to confirm my face blushed
as deeply as it felt.  I immediately got busy and undressed.  The whole
time my fingers trembled and fumbled with buttons and belts, I heard the
feint sounds of the voice of my conscience warning me against what I was
doing.  But I ignored it and pressed on quickly so as not to succumb to it.
In my haste in undress, I didn't even pause to neatly fold each garment
removed.  This small act in itself convinced me I had somehow become a
different person.  I removed everything from my blouse right down to my
comfortable if not plain white cotton panties and threw the lot haphazardly
onto the divan and floor.  I even removed my watch and the necklace of
small pearls from around my neck.  The desire to obey completely was
already swamping my senses and arousing me in ways I'd never before been
aroused.

   When I emerged from the bedroom, Mistress called out for me to stop at
the top of the stairs.  I was not, she informed me, allowed to cover myself
in any way.  Her tone was by now more demanding than it had been before and
I dared not question her.  To me, she was no longer Emma, my friendly
neighbor.  She was now Mistress Emma and I was obliged to obey her every
command.  Without looking down at her, I moved my arms away from the
shielding positions over my breasts and pussy, reaching behind my back and
clasping my fingers together to ensure they didn't accidentally drift back
to hide my nakedness.

   I slowly, one gentle step at a time, descended the staircase.  My
breasts jiggled a little with each calculated step I took, as did my plump
butt cheeks.  The movement of these parts of my nude body made me acutely
aware of my surrender and the fact nobody but my husband had ever seen me
naked as an adult.  The tiny voice of conscience in my head grew louder as
it questioned what I was doing.  It spoke loudly to me as it began telling
me of the possible consequences of my actions.  "You'll end up her sex
slave!" it repeated with increasing alarm.  But rather than cause my
retreat, it stimulated me and made my entire body tingle with apprehensive
delight.  By the time I reached the bottom step it was my own voice in my
head telling me I couldn't turn back now, even if I wanted to.  "You have
already surrendered," I said to myself.  "There's no way out." The words
began to repeat like a mantra in my mind.

   Mistress Emma told me to stop once I'd reached the bottom of the stairs.
I was aware she was now saying admiring things about my body, but it was
like I was cuckooed in an invisible haze of sensuous delight and her words
barely penetrated the bubble.  All I really needed to know was that she was
pleased with me and that this body -- the soft, sensitive shell around my
very soul -- was now hers for the taking.  She told me to turn around,
which I did on the spot.  I turned a quarter of a circle with each step,
pausing at each turn to allow Mistress to get a good look at me.  Once I
completed the circle, I saw by her smile I was a pleasing sight for her. 
This in return pleased me and made me feel sublimely good about myself.

   The door to Mistress Emma's dungeon was under the stairs I'd just walked
down.  She opened it, ushered me in and then directed me to walk ahead of
her down the long flight of narrow wooden stairs.  The metal handrail which
concealed the discreet lighting for the stairs felt warm to touch; a
contrast to the hard, cold wood underfoot.  I guessed the stairs had led
down maybe twenty feet under the house and into a large vestibule area. 
The door to the dungeon proper was an imposing mass of solid mahogany with
ornate, black wrought iron hinges and a decorative matching, oversized
keyhole.  My first impressions were that it was the door to a medieval
torture chamber.  After Mistress unlocked the door and gently pushed me
inside, those impressions were reinforced tenfold.  I stood there
mesmerized by the sight of everything; my pulse quickening slightly as the
realization my fantasies hadn't prepared me at all for this place.  There
was a disturbing finality in the sound of the door being locked behind me
and a brief sensation of panic when my conscience whispered to me: "you're
on your own now" before telling me it was abandoning me to whatever fate I
had brought on myself.

   Mistress casually wandered around, stood in front of me and handed me a
box of matches.  The cavernous room was already half lit by discreet
lighting above each of the many and various perverse machines and
furniture, but she wanted me to light all the candles as well.  There was
literally dozens of them scattered around on ledges around the stone walls
and in tabernacle-styled glass urns mounted to posts that held up the
vaulted ceiling.  I obediently went about my task while Mistress busied
herself retrieving things from a huge, gothic looking cabinet in one corner
of the dungeon.  Once I had completed my task (it took nearly twenty
minutes) I returned to Mistress and handed back her matches.

   "Well, little slave girl.  What are we going to do with you?"

   I sensed it was a rhetorical question but I shrugged and mumbled, "I
don't know" anyway.

   "Let's show you around for starters," she said.

   For the next hour or so, I followed Mistress around as she showed me
each of the contraptions in her dungeon and explained their uses.  Some
were familiar things that had been modified; such as a carpenter's wooden
saw horse that had metal eyebolts at the base of each leg and a narrow,
black leather padded bench on top.  Others pieces of furniture were also
familiar but which I'd never seen outside of movies or books, such as a set
of wooden stocks mounted on a low, wooden platform to one side of the room.
There was also a sinister looking rack, complete with large, wooden-spoked
wheels at each end that were ratcheted and designed to pull tight chains
attached to whoever was to them.  Mistress also said, somewhat proudly and
with a definite twinkle in her eye, that the bed of the rack could also be
tilted almost fully up or fully down, pivoting like a teeter-totter.  There
were at least metal cages that she showed me, ranging from a tall, narrow
upright one to a large, box-shaped one to a small, cube-shaped one that
looked barely large enough to accommodate anybody.  The fourth was a huge,
birdcage-like one that was mounted on some kind of motorized base that
allowed it to be rotated around in circles.  Towards the middle of the room
was a large A-frame structure, sort of like an industrial-sized playground
swing set but with manacles hanging at the end of the chains instead of
seats.  Another wooden frame structure in the shape of a giant X leaned
against one of the walls and beside it, a huge wooden wheel (like a
roulette wheel turned on its side and mounted directly onto the wall) with
leather straps attached at about a dozen, equally spaced positions around
the outer edge of it.

   "Not everything in here is designed purely for torture," Mistress said.

   She pointed to what looked like a mechanical bucking horse, complete
with an authentic riding saddle but with a rather large and dangerous
looking latex dildo rising up out of the seat of the saddle.

   "Would you like a ride?"

   Mistress was laughing when she asked me but I knew the offer was
serious. I demurely declined but couldn't stop sudden tantalizing thoughts
that subsequently flooded my mind.

   The next item Mistress showed me was a large, wooden box on a stone
pedestal.  It had a number of holes roughly six inches in diameter in each
of its sides and velvet curtaining inside to prevent light from entering
the box.

   "The grope box," Mistress said.

   I involuntarily shivered; a rash of Goosebumps breaking out all over my
nude body at the thought of being locked inside the box while unseen hands
reached inside and "groped" me.  It didn't go unnoticed by Mistress Emma
either.

   "You like that?" Mistress grinned.  "Then, you've going to love this!"

   She led me over to a padded bench not unlike a massage bench, but only
four or so feet long.  The narrow end of the bench was flush up against the
wall of the dungeon, just below a twelve-inch square hole in the wall.

   "Have you heard of the Blarney Stone?" Mistress asked.

   I did vaguely recall something by that name -- a stone in some Irish
castle somewhere that, if kissed, brought good luck.  The problem was, as I
recalled, that the person kissing it had to crawl into some weird position
with their head through the castle wall.  I nodded to Mistress.

   "Give it a try," she said.

   Mistress didn't sound like she was ordering me but I could tell from the
look in her eye she wanted me to obey.

   "You won't hurt me, will you?" I bravely asked.

   "No, of course not!  What on Earth makes you think I'd ever really hurt
you?"

   I shrugged.

   "It's all about trust," Mistress added.

   I instantly regretted my question and realized what she said was true,
even though I still wasn't one hundred percent sure I could truth her.  But
as I stood there contemplating things, it occurred to me it was this same
element of insecurity that might be at the core of my pleasure.

   "How do you want me on it?"

   The sensations of surrender were immediate and intensely pleasurable.

   "On your stomach ...  put your head through there and make yourself
comfortable," Mistress said.  She waited while I got into position and then
said "Stay there ...  I'm just coming around to your side."

   There was nothing but darkness on the other side of the wall.  I heard a
door open not far from my head and then the room slowly filled with soft
light.

   "A bit of mood lighting," Mistress said as she walked over to stand next
to my head.  "The clients and the slaves really love this!"

   Before I could ask what Mistress meant, she reached just above my head
and lowered a wooden trap door of some sort that locked my head in position
making it impossible to escape.  Mistress reassured me nothing would happen
unless I wanted it to and once the initial panic subsided, I found myself
feeling almost comfortable.  The padded bench supported my upper body and
the wooden panel that held my head in place was also padded and soft
against the back of my neck.  I would have been able to make myself
completely comfortable but for the fact the bench wasn't quite long enough
to support my legs and was at a height where I had to let my feet hang down
without touching the floor.  I watched silently wheeled over a peculiar
looking chair and positioned it in front of me.

   "Have you figured out what the Blarney Stone is yet?" she asked.

   "No --" I lied.  Mistress had begun to undress and I dreaded what I
might be forced to do.

   Since Mistress hadn't yet tried to do anything, I remained quiet while
she continued undressing.  Her body, voluptuous and tanned all over,
glistened with beads of perspiration.  It was a body she was clearly proud
of and she sauntered around in front of me and sat herself in the chair in
front.  She then raised her long, muscled legs up and placed her feet on
the wall somewhere above my head.  There was no way for me to look anywhere
except directly at Mistress Emma's cleanly shaved pussy.  It was a sight
that didn't arouse me in the slightest, but I was still captivated by it
nonetheless.  I'd never seen another woman's vagina before, least of all at
such close and inescapable range.  But the thing that really caught my eye
and held my attention was the piercing she had.  It was a largish golden
ring about the same size as my wedding band right through her clitoral
hood. Attached to it was an emerald stone, perhaps an inch long and
teardrop shaped.  It glowed a rich shade of greenish purple; the faceted
sides having captured, magnified and tinted the soft red lighting that
illuminated the small room.

   "The Blarney Stone," Mistress said, her voice quiet with reverence.

   I couldn't quite see what Mistress was did, but an electric motor
suddenly whirred under her seat and her crotch slowly began to rise up
closer and closer to my face.

   "Please Mistress.  Please don't make me do this."

   My nostrils, already filled with the pungent-sweet scent of Mistress
Emma's manifest arousal -- a freakish blend of her vaginal juices and White
Linen perfume (one of my own favorites also), twitched and were forced to
sniff in more of her aroma.  I tried to modestly turn my face to the side,
but Mistress clamped her inner thighs over my ears and held my head firm. I
pleaded again, but I was ignored.

   "Kiss the stone," Mistress said.  She still didn't sound like she was
demanding anything unreasonable and she even began to lightly comb her
fingers through my hair.

   The emerald stone was by now a mere breath away from my lips, but I
couldn't bring myself to do what Mistress wanted.

   "Come on, my pretty little slave girl.  It's not every slave who has
this privilege bestowed upon them."

   "I can't," I mumbled.

   "Yes you can.  Nobody will know.  It will be our little secret."

   "I can't.  Really I can't."

   "Don't you want to please me?" Mistress Emma's voice sounded soft and
plaintive.

   It was a question I knew I'd have to answer in the affirmative.  I let
the long silence hang in the aromatic air between us before finally
answering.  "Yes."

   I closed my eyes and gently pursed my lips.  It was just a little kiss;
the tiniest of light pecks, but I felt it was still filled with affection
for my Mistress.

   "That wasn't a kiss!"

   "Please, Mistress.  I did what you asked."

   "No it wasn't.  Give it a proper kiss.  Take it all the way into your
mouth and roll it around on your tongue.  Who knows what bad luck might
befall you if you don't kiss it properly --"

   It wasn't a threat but the message was clear and I was in no position to
risk anything.

   Getting the large emerald stone into my mouth proved more difficult that
I anticipated.  Each time I tried to grab gold of it with my lips, it would
slip out of reach.  I felt repulsed by the thought of having to stick my
tongue anywhere near Mistress Emma's vagina, especially now as my fumbling
attempts to suck the stone obviously were stimulating her.  Her outer labia
lips had unfurled to fully reveal her glistening inner pink wetness.  But I
had no choice that I could see and to make matters worse, the stone now
rested in such a position that my last futile attempts to grab hold of it
half buried it in her vagina.

   "That's a good girl.  Give Mistress little licks while you're at it."

   I felt so dirty and ashamed of myself as I allowed my tongue to glide up
along the furrow of Mistress Emma's slit.  The tip of my tongue and the
taste buds on it exploded with the sharp flavors of her juices.  It was an
action I heard elicit a soft moan of pleasure from Mistress -- a sound I
found strangely reassuring -- so I licked again, this time pushing my
tongue deep into her before sucking the stone into my mouth.  I gently
rolled it in my mouth, tonguing it and carefully tugging on it to please my
Mistress.  She continued to moan and sigh softly, quietly urging me to suck
it deeper into my mouth.  I seemed to instinctively know what she was
asking me to do.  My chin pushed deeper into the soft, warm wetness of
Mistress' pussy until my lips were able to suck in the golden ring that
held the emerald.

   "Oooh that's good!" Mistress moaned loudly when my lower lip brushed
against her clitoris.

   I wondered why, if it felt so good, why Mistress now apparently wanted
me to stop.  She had hold of my hair and had to pry my lips free of the
stone.

   "Here, lick me properly."

   It seemed ridiculous to protest when my chin was literally dripping with
Mistress Emma's juices.  She wedged her fingers between my face and the
stone and pulled it up out of the way, lifting her clit hood in the
process, so I could have clear access to her swollen clitoris.

   I didn't think about what I had to do.  Instead, my tongue flicked
tentatively out until I could explore the smooth roundness of Mistress'
clitoris with the tip of my tongue.

   "Suck it!" Mistress groaned with delight.

   I pursed my lips and pressed them over her clitoris.  Then, with an
enthusiasm that came out of nowhere, I sucked hungrily on the small, hard
bud of slippery flesh.  There was no denying it gave my Mistress pleasure
and her loud moans encouraged me to do my very best to please her.  Her
juices, which had at first turned my stomach, now tasted like honey of the
gods.  Between sucking and tonguing Mistress' clitoris, I mashed my mouth
hard against her gaping pussy and drank deeply of her juices.  My whole
face from my nose down to my chin became smeared in Mistress Emma's heady
juices.

   "That's a girl!  Fuck my cunt with your tongue like a good little
slave-slut!"

   Nobody had ever before called me a slut and the word resounded deeply in
me.  I stiffened my tongue and pushed it deeply into Mistress' vagina. 
"I'm not a slut!" I started to say to myself.  "I'm a good girl!"

   I said it over and over to myself.  Each time I did, I'd scoop out a
mouthful of Mistress Emma's juices and swallow them.  There was an endless
flow of them and I began to moan myself, fearing I wouldn't be able to
drink every last drop of them.

   Behind me, my feet kicked out in free air as I tried to bury more of my
face in Mistress' pussy.  My own vagina had begun to leak juices of its own
-- a fact confirmed when I pushed my hands between my legs and started to
furiously rub my aroused clitoris.

   Within a minute of starting to stimulate myself, and with my own moaning
increasing to a crescendo, Mistress suddenly and unexpectedly grabbed a
handful of my hair and pulled my face away from her pussy.

   "I hope you're not playing with yourself?"

   I was totally lost in a dreamy state, but I managed to tell her I
wasn't. It was only a small lie, I thought.

   "You'd better not be!  You're not allowed to cum until I say you can cum
--"

   Mistress pushed my face back down into her waiting pussy.  I continued
to lick and suck her and resumed rubbing my own throbbing clitoris.

   It was only another minute or so before the pleasure became too much for
me.  I sucked Mistress Emma's clitoris into my mouth and tongued it
furiously.  I desperately wanted her to orgasm with me -- a desperation
that was rewarded when I heard Mistress let out a loud, shrill scream of
pleasure.  I kept my lips clamped tightly on her clitoris while my own
orgasm erupted in wave after wave of delightful ripples of pleasure. 
Finally, after a deep, throaty growl from Mistress, she pushed my head away
and began to lower her seat.

   "Ooh that was good!" Mistress visibly shivered as she said it as if she
was shaking free of the aftershock of her orgasm.

   I smiled sheepishly but was proud to have pleased my Mistress.  "Did I
please you, Mistress?" I asked.  I knew I had but I just wanted to be sure.

   "Yes, child.  Except for one thing."

   "Oh?" I felt instantly guilty about having continued to pleasure myself
even after Mistress had specifically told me not to.

   "You played with yourself, didn't you."

   It wasn't a question as much as it was a statement of fact.

   "I didn't mean to, Mistress," I whimpered apologetically.

   "What do you mean -- didn't mean to?"

   I didn't have an answer.

   "Naughty slave girls who don't do as they're told are punished around
here."

   The way Mistress said the word (punished) sent a shiver down my spine.
She didn't say anything else while she re-dressed in her leather outfit. 
Once dressed again, she wandered over to a small metal cabinet and
retrieved something.  It appeared to be a harness of some kind -- and once
Mistress had strapped herself into it, it only took a second to realize
what it was.

   The strap-on dildo that danced obscenely up out of Mistress Emma's loins
was at least eight inches long with a girth thicker than one of my wrists.

   "Let's go and see how wet that cunt of yours is," Mistress Emma smirked
as she said it.  "If it's not wet, I won't try and force this thing into
you, but if it is --"

   "Please Mistress!  I won't do it again.  I promise!"

   I repeated my plea, watching helplessly as Mistress Emma disappeared out
of the room.  A moment later and I could feel her hands on my wrists.  I
felt terrified as she bound them with rope.  All I could do was wriggle my
fingers as she looped the rope tightly around them.  She released them but
then I felt something pulling them up, tethering them high up and out of
the way behind me so I couldn't defend myself with them.  After tying my
wrists, I felt her hands on my ankles.  Each was bound separately and
hitched to points up high on the back legs of the bench I was lying on. 
The position, with my knees bent up and ankles spread, undoubtedly exposed
my pussy completely.  It was a humiliating position but one which managed
to perversely arouse me -- an arousal I knew I'd be unable to hide from
Mistress.

   "Oh my God!" I gasped when I felt the hard, cold tip of the dildo press
against my pussy.  I felt incredibly embarrassed as the shaft of it slipped
relatively easily into my vagina.  The sensations of being filled with
something so huge; of there being no preliminary stimulation or sense of
loving affection from Mistress when she speared me with it -- As the
Blarney Stone had earlier caused my mouth to flood with saliva when I
sucked it, so too my pussy convulsed in spasms and juices flowed
uncontrollably around the mammoth shaft inside me.  Mistress pushed hard
and deep, taking a moment to work up into a slow, sensuous rhythm, before
she withdrew is completely and left my pussy quivering and yearning for
more.

   "Well, well, well.  Who's the naughty little slave-slut then?" Mistress
Emma's grin couldn't have been broader when she returned to face me. 
"Smell this," she said, waving the glistening black shaft in front of my
face.  "Go on, taste it!"

   I looked helplessly up at Mistress -- a pleading look begging her not to
force me to taste my own juices.

   "Hurry up!  It's not the only cunt you've tasted today!"

   I didn't need to be reminded, and I was suddenly consciously aware that
Mistress Emma's juices had dried like a bizarre beauty mask on my face and
neck.  Reluctantly, I closed my eyes and parted my lips to take the tip
into my mouth.  It was by far too large to take much more than the tip but
I did my honest best to swallow as much of it as I could.

   "Lick it all clean," Mistress said after a minute or so of labored
sucking on my part.

   She withdrew the dildo and forced me to suck along each side of the
shaft, ensuring every last remnant of my pussy juice was licked clean. 
Once satisfied with my efforts, Mistress went back out into the dungeon and
again penetrated my defenseless pussy with the dildo.  Each time it entered
me, I felt my pussy bubble and boil with an eruption of pleasure juices. 
She'd then return and force me to suck and lick it clean again, reminding
me constantly of how she could keep me orgasming until I begged her to
stop. The delightful torments might have gone on for hours, but for the
interruption of the doorbell ringing upstairs.

   "Don't go anywhere," Mistress said to me as she went across the room and
pressed a button on an intercom.

   "Hello?"

   "Emma, hi.  It's Jean here.  Are you busy?"

   A woman's voice crackled out of a speaker.

   "No," Mistress Emma said back.  "I'm just breaking in a new slave.  Come
on down."

   And with that, Mistress pressed another button and I heard the sound of
the door upstairs being unlocked.  I froze, unable to speak.

   "This should be fun!" Mistress laughed as she strode from the room.

   A minute or two later and I heard the outer dungeon door being unlocked
and the woman's voice again -- muffled through the walls but still audible
enough to realize she was obviously a close friend of Mistress Emma.  The
voices then went hushed for a long while.  My arms and shoulders were
becoming sore from the awkward position they'd been bound in, but I dared
no call out lest I attracted even more attention to myself.

   "Right," Mistress Emma's voice startled me as she reentered the little
back room.  "Now I can relax and watch you get punished properly!  Would
you like to watch as well?"

   At first I didn't have a clue what Mistress Emma meant.  It wasn't until
she reached above my head and pulled out the long arm of a wall bracket
holding a television screen that I realized both what she meant and how she
had been able to see for herself I had been playing with myself earlier. 
There was a camera in the dungeon aimed directly at my trussed up ass.  It
was a surreal picture to see myself like that and realize I was about to
see myself getting punished by the mysterious woman who had come to visit
Mistress Emma.

   I couldn't see her face, but she was a big, buxom woman with the
physique of a male body builder.  She glided silently in and out of camera
shot a number of times before finally taking up position right behind me. I
was spellbound by the sight of her and unprepared for the first stinging
blow she landed on one of my ass cheeks.  The picture was too dark to see
exactly what it was she'd hit me with, but it was obviously a small whip of
some kind -- a small whip with lots of stingy little fronds.  I yelped as a
second and third strike hit my cheeks.  Then a fourth.  She clearly knew
she had my attention by this stage and I watched helplessly as she readied
herself for another strike.  I could tell from the position of her hands
where she was about to strike and the pain, as expected, seared the instant
the fronds lashed against my unprotected pussy.

   I wailed loudly and wriggled my butt.  The stinging sensations
intensified and ripped through every single nerve ending in my body.  There
was a second strike in exactly the same place and the third had be nearly
in tears, screaming hysterically and begging Mistress Emma for mercy.

   My eyes misted up a little but I could still see the woman's head as it
leaned in close to my burning pussy.  I felt her breath, hot and moist as
it drew close and then cool and refreshing as she lightly blew a gentle
stream of air onto my sore pussy.  Her hands then softly cupped my butt
cheeks and caressed them as he mouth closed over my clitoris.  The pain of
the whip's lashes had sent it retreating for cover, but the woman's
tonguing of it soon had it tingling and excited.  But the pleasure was
short-lived and another excruciatingly painful flick of the small whip
landed directly on my aroused clitoris.

   "Oh shit!" I screamed.  It was the first time in I didn't know how long
I'd ever swore, but I didn't care.  "Please Mistress!  Make her stop!  This
is too cruel!"

   The mystery woman was again now sucking and soothing my sore clit.  I
had never in my wildest dreams imagined anybody could be so nasty -- the
humiliation of being aroused by her only to have that arousal punished in
the most painful way.

   "You want me to tell her to stop?" Mistress asked.

   "Yes.  Oh yes, please!" I sobbed and shrieked as yet another stinging
blow made direct contact with my swollen clitoris.

   "But you haven't been properly punished yet.  You wouldn't be getting
whipped if your cunt wasn't continuing to respond to the pleasure."

   "Please Mistress!  There must be another way to teach me my lesson!"

   It was taking the mystery woman longer and longer between strikes to
arouse my tortured clitoris, but it continued to respond in ways I couldn't
control.  Another fierce hit and I started gasping for breath.  It was
complete and utter agony that I begged to have stopped, but my pussy kept
betraying me and inviting even more punishment.

   "Another way?" Mistress Emma drew a deep, thoughtful breath and clearly
wasn't in any hurry to offer me alternatives.  Her delay resulted in me
suffering another stinging strike before she finally came up with an option
-- the only other option, she stressed.

   I could barely see through the tears, but I sized up the strap-on dildo
she still wore and ultimately decided I'd rather be sodomized with it than
endure any more whipping of my pussy.

   "Beg for it," Mistress said when I agreed.  "Scream it out so my friend
knows it's time to stop."

   "Please Mistress!" I wailed loudly.  Another blow to my tortured
clitoris had me again gasping for breath.

   "Please what?  Tell me what you want.  Beg me to fuck your ass!"

   "Yes please, Mistress!  Please fuck my ass!"

   I couldn't believe the words were coming from me, but still she wanted
to humiliate me more.

   "Please fuck my ass with your big cock!  Go on, say it!"

   "Please fuck my ass with your big cock!" I screamed so loudly it hurt my
throat.  But the whipping and licking seemed to stop and for a brief
moment, I felt relief.

   I hung my head shamefully and waited for the inevitable.

   The woman who had been torturing me entered the small back room and
smiled when Mistress Emma introduced me.  Even before I'd had the chance to
say hello, Mistress Jean had already begun to remove her clothes.  Once
naked, she went straight to Mistress Emma's Blarney Chair and began raising
herself into position in front of me.

   My arms by this stage were starting to ache unbearably and I told
Mistress Emma that.

   "I'll let them down for you on one condition," she replied.

   I dreaded the condition but it turned out to be not quite as bad as I
expected.  At least it wasn't painful and once my arms were released and I
felt the circulation again begin to flow back to my fingers, I gingerly
reached back and grabbed hold of my butt cheeks and held them spread for my
Mistress.  As much as I didn't want to lick or suck Mistress Jean's pussy,
my instructions were clear.  Mistress Emma was going to sodomize my virgin
ass with the big dildo until Mistress Jean said she'd had enough of my
tongue.

   Her taste was different to that of Mistress Emma.  There was an earthy,
dank smelling sweatiness about her that almost made me want to gag.  After
a few tentative lashes with my tongue, I felt the coldness of lubricant
being massaged into my anus followed by the hard bluntness of the dildo tip
readying itself to penetrate me.  My tongue went in search of Mistress
Jean's clitoris.  Pressure against my resisting anus intensified and caused
me to pant -- short, sharp, hot breaths that seemed to please Mistress
Jean.

   That first sensation of the dildo breaking past my resistance took my
breath away.  I'd expected it to hurt a hell of a lot more than it did, but
Mistress Emma felt like she was taking her time with me.  The one small
blessing of the day, I thought to myself.

   Mistress Jean didn't say anything for a long while.  I took that as a
sign I was pleasing her but I needed to be sure and so asked her.

   "Tell your Mistress to fuck your ass harder," she replied.  "And suck
harder on my clit when she does.  I want to feel how hard she's fucking
you."

   I cleared my throat and then called out the request.

   "Say it again.  I don't think she heard you."

   "Fuck me harder Mistress!" I screamed.  I then sucked up a large
mouthful of Mistress Jean's clitoris and the skin surrounding it.

   "Oooh that feels good!  Again.  Tell her you want more."

   It now became torturous, especially when Mistress Emma withdrew an inch
or two of the shaft so she could drive more of it harder into my stretched,
burning anus.

   "That's it!  Take that cock up your ass while you suck my cunt!"

   I could tell by the way Mistress Jean's voice now had an unsteady tone
to it that the combination of my begging and sucking was having the desired
effect.  Without being prompted again, I called back to Mistress Emma "fuck
my ass, Mistress.  Give me all of that cock!"

   It felt so degrading to say, but I needed Mistress Jean to orgasm so my
ordeal might stop.  The plastic cock that had felt so huge in my pussy felt
enormous in my ass.  I could feel Mistress Emma's efforts behind me speed
up each time I begged for more.  In and out the cock slid.  The friction
soon burned painfully -- much more painfully than the pussy whipping
punishment it replaced.  My lips locked onto Mistress Jean's clit and I
continued to suck and lick furiously.  Her orgasm, when it came, frightened
me with its intensity.  She howled like a banshee and screamed demeaning
names at me.  I counted down the seconds until she sounded satisfied.  The
hard, merciless ramming of the cock in my ass stopped shortly after and I
sobbed uncontrollably.  Not just from the pain, but from the sheer
exhaustion of everything that had happened to me -- exhaustion, and relief
when I felt my legs finally being released from their bondage.  My ass had
never been so sore; my pussy, while no longer in a state of arousal, still
tingled.  At an even deeper level, I felt in a state of serene bliss like I
had never known.  My life had been irreversibly changed forever.

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