Date: Mon, 08 Mar 2004 23:58:36 +0000
From: M Martens <tentamen@hotmail.com>
Subject: House-sitting For My Mistress 3 (new chapter)

Satisfied that my ass was now clean, not to mention thoroughly humiliated,
Ms. Martens admonished that we still had a lot of work to do and beckoned me
to follow her over to the spacious shower stall. Awaiting in the shower was
a chair. I didn't understand. Ms. Martens removed my ball gag and then
pointed at the chair.

`Sit down and remove your Keds,' she ordered. I did so, unlacing each of my
sneakers in turn.

`Go ahead, kiss them,' she added. Not quite sure what she wanted me to do, I
offered a generous kiss to each white rubber sidewall. `Now lick the soles,'
she commanded. I did as she ordered, wetting the beige rubber soles with my
tongue. `And a kiss for the blue label, too,' added Ms. Martens. `You have
to demonstrate reverence for your sneakers, slave. We don't worship heels
here. These sneakers aren't just reminders of your feminine sensibilities,
but also a symbol of your submission to Me. Understand, slave?'

`Yes, Mistress. I'll remember,' I responded softly.

`Good. Now hand them to me,' she continued. I did so, and she carefully
placed them atop the examination table, before fetching a few items from one
of the drawers. When she returned, my wrists were soon bound behind my back
and my ankles were tethered to cuffs already secured to the back legs of the
chair. Ms. Martens then fastened a very high black rubber posture collar
around my neck. It was at least four inches high and contoured at the top to
mimic the line of chin. Once it was tightened, it was nearly impossible to
turn my head.

Ms. Martens then removed my white rubber swim cap and began to brush my
hair, which was quite matted and tangled, having been so long confined under
the cap. I then spied Ms. Martens in a nearby mirror, standing behind me,
holding a pair of scissors and shears. Was she going cut off my hair?! How
could I explain that? It wouldn't grow back in two weeks.

I pleaded with her. `Please, Mistress. Please don't cut my hair. Everyone's
always been envious of me. Please...'

`Shut up, slave, or I'll cut it all off!' barked Ms. Martens, obviously
annoyed at my protests. Grabbing a handful of my hair and pulling sharply,
she continued her admonishments. `What did I tell you when you arrived here
this morning? I told you that your body was now Mine. Your mouth, your tits,
your cunt, your ass... everything. And that includes your hair. I think you
should reconsider your position. I don't want to shave you bald, so don't
make me, but you do need to be trimmed for the next phase of your training.
Long hair is impractical. It gets all tangled in the hoods... It simply
won't do.'

`As my slave you'll be neatly cropped. Is that understood?' continued Ms.
Martens, returning from the examination table once again with yet another
implement.

`Yes, Mistress. I'm sorry,' I replied apologetically, not wanting to incur
her further wrath.

`Good, that's better,' added Ms. Martens smugly. `But you still need to be
punished for your insolence. I was going to wait until later to put you
under the clamp, but you've left me little choice now.'

Almost out of character, Ms. Martens then knelt and began licking my
breasts, first the underside, before tracing upwards to each of my nipples,
sucking them. I quivered. My nipples hardened, preempting her surprising
suckles, erect at even the thought. As Ms. Martens began to fit each of my
nipples with the metal clamps, she warned me. `And I'd better not hear one
peep out of you. Not one, or else I'll fit you with a gag for the balance of
the day. I don't think your jaw would like that very much, so I bid you
silent.'

It sounded like sensible advice to me. I winced mightily, clenching my
teeth, as each clamp was in turn fitted to my nipples and tightened very
slowly and painfully.

`Now then, where were we?' chided Ms. Martens, as she stood back to admire
my new adornments, soon returning to the matter of my grooming. Her hands
worked quickly and skillfully. My long locks falling wayside, draping across
my shoulders, covering my lap. I shed a hidden tear for vanity's sake at the
loss of my cherished tresses. A sentiment I'm sure was not at all lost on my
Mistress.

When she was finished, I looked boyish, like Winona Ryder at her closest
coiffing. Only the wispiest of bangs remained, and although the posture
collar prevented me from confirming it, I surmised as Ms. Martens teased
what little hair remained that not a strand could find the full length of my
neck. Nay, certainly not as Ms. Martens removed my posture collar and tidied
up the back.

`Well, what do you think, slave?' taunted Ms. Martens, holding aloft a hand
mirror so that I could see her handiwork.

`It's j-just hard, Mistress. I've worn my hair long for years and years.
It's going to take some getting used to. I mean, don't get me wrong, you did
a great job, Mistress. I just look boyish.'

`I prefer to think of it as spritely and neat,' retorted Ms. Martens,
`almost pixielike. You look more like a proper rubberslave now.'

With that, Ms. Martens gathered the larger clumps of hair from the shower
base and disposed of them. She then undid my ankle restraints and helped me
to my feet. She took the chair out of the shower and placed it against the
back wall. It had served its purpose. Still clad in her tight black rubber
leotard, Ms. Martens then removed her own Keds, setting them next to mine,
before joining me in the shower, drawing the curtain closed beside us.

Ms. Martens turned on the water, placing herself between me and the
showerhead. As I watched almost hypnotically the water beading and cascading
off her rubber suit, she adjusted the temperature to a nice warm stream,
before exposing me to the fullness of the jet. I knew she might be reticent
to admit it, but she was protecting me, and I appreciated it. Believe it or
not, it definitely made me feel cared for.

As I watched the last traces of my hair go down the drain, Ms. Martens undid
my wrist cuffs from behind my back and refastened them to an eyebolt hanging
from the ceiling. Ms. Martens then tended to me. First she brushed my teeth.
This she did carefully and attentively, a more thorough brushing than I
usually strive for, to be sure. When she was done, she ordered me to rinse
with a few mouthfuls of water, and then offered me a drink of mouthwash.

Telling me to close my eyes, she added shampoo to what was left of my hair,
rubbing it in, ensuring my docility. Ms. Martens massaged my scalp for the
better part of a few wonderful minutes, before rinsing my head under the
soothing stream. One of her probing fingers simultaneously reached downward,
parting me, cleaning between my lips with the mild shampoo, the merest
prequel of what was to come.

I opened my eyes and watched as she collected some moisturizing soap and a
razor. With perhaps five or six swift but skillful strokes per pit, Ms.
Martens shaved my underarms. She then spread my legs apart and placed my
left foot up on one of the hand bars of the shower, forcing me to shift my
weight more to my arms above me. After lathering my pubic area, Ms. Martens
carefully finished what I had started that morning. Before I arrived, I made
sure that I was neat. Now I was totally bare.

Given everything that was happening, part of me felt I should find all of
this utterly offensive and appalling. But I didn't. Having my teeth brushed
for me and being shaved by another woman, it should all seem more
humiliating, more embarrassing than it did. Shouldn't I be more revolted by
this surrender, even if it was just a reflex response to my loss of
autonomy? Strangely, it didn't feel all that embarrassing. Vulnerable, yes.
Submissive, entirely. I felt like putty in her hands. I was discovering more
about myself than I was ready to admit and this was just the start of my
servitude. What else was I to learn?

I then watched as Ms. Martens slipped on a pair of nubby white gloves. `I'm
sure you won't find this at all unpleasant, slave, at least not the loofah,'
insisted Ms. Martens, `now turn around.'

I turned and felt her place a glob of grainy textured goop on my back, which
she quickly began to rub on with the gloves in gentle circular motions. The
feeling was scintillating ^Ö gentle, yet rough.  I was being shined in a most
personal way. She polished my arms, my entire back, the backs of both legs,
and then, with another large drop of what I had learned was sugar, burnished
the fullness of my backside. When I was made gently rosey to her
contentment, Ms. Martens turned me around and went to work on my anterior.
She exfoliated the underside of my arms, my chest, my torso, and the front
of each leg. She did this all the while careful to avoid the clamps still
painfully affixed to each of my tortured nipples, a reminder of my earlier
transgression. A transgression I thought wise not to reprise.

With even more sugar and strength my Mistress paid particular attention to
my elbows and knees. I moaned from the sheer enjoyment, my entire body
glowing, my head hanging heavy. In my mind, I could no longer formulate
words, thoughts. I merely felt. And I continued to feel cared for. I felt
special. I must have some other meaning for her to spend so much time on me,
certainly more than an orifice for her pleasure? Mindful of my withdrawal,
she broke my reverie by telling me there was pleasure still to come, but
that I must wait.

After she rinsed me off, Ms. Martens retrieved a stainless steel hose
attachment, which was neatly draped over a spool near the faucet, and turned
on the adjoining valve, causing a steady stream of warm water to spray from
its head. She held it up for me to see. When Ms. Martens saw that I
contemplated it, that I fully comprehended it, she turned me around and told
me to get up on my toes and stick out my ass. She teased my crack with the
silver bullet, running it up and down between my cheeks, before applying a
dab of KY and ramming it up my ass.

`You've already had your enema, slave,' Ms. Martens assured me, `you don't
have to hold this. It's just to make sure that you're clean. Relax.'

I did as she suggested or rather ordered. As she moved the bullet around in
my ass, I felt the water running right back out of me, as I made no attempt
to clench or retain it. The gentle pulsing of the water felt kind of good
back there, and when Ms. Martens noticed that I was enjoying it too much,
she withdrew the nozzle and again ordered me to turn around, this time
facing her.

She applied a glob of liquid soap to the spewing bullet and cleaned it off,
looking quite deliberate and devious in her movements, with each stroke
simulating intercourse. After tracing the metallic head downward from my
sternum to my navel, she forcefully backed me against the shower wall. There
was power and purpose in her actions, and I doubt that I could have stopped
her even if my arms weren't still bound. She looked me straight in the eyes,
her eyes never leaving mine, and shoved the silver bullet deep inside my
hungry pussy.

`Hold that there,' ordered Ms. Martens. I crossed my legs as best I could.

Ms. Martens then took both of her hands and stroked my cheeks with her
thumbs, her fingers on my temples. She traced the lines of my brow and
elsewhere, likewise tracing her finger along my chin, gently rubbing my
earlobes.

As her fingers found my compliant lips, she muttered under her breath, `You
are so fucking beautiful,' and then leaned forward and kissed me.

I went weak. Breathlessly, I followed her every lead, not interrupting our
soul kiss. Our lips mashed, our tongues mingled wildly. It was primal. It
was passionate. For just one second, I was outside of my body, looking down
at us. Luminous beings. I tried to keep this image in my mind as my Mistress
raped me with her mouth.

I felt her hands on the nipple clamps, her fingers fumbling with the
thumbscrews, increasing and decreasing the pressure, playing my nipples like
an instrument. The pain was electric. Bolts of pain mixed with pleasure
coursing throughout my body now, not just my bosom.

Her kiss heavy upon me, with turrets of warm water pulsing guttural within
me, I could resist no longer. I was swept away - nay, pulverized, by an
orgasm so essential, so beyond any previous reckoning. Base. Primal. Raw.

And then another soon after, and at least one more. I don't know. I was
trembling in her arms when Ms. Martens joined me, screaming in a chorus of
pleasure, her right hand leaving my nipples for but a few seconds, enabling
her own conclusion. A few seconds. Long enough, it seemed.

I was spent. I collapsed, my weight literally hanging dead upon my numb
arms. I went tone deaf, listening to the seemingly distant, cavernous echo
of the shower as the water continued to rain down upon my limp body.
Pooling, retreating, spiraling down the drain, seeking its inevitable exit
at the Niagara of my perception. Every drop of water giving rise to
rumbling, echoing seamlessly like distant thunder.

Ms. Martens had disappeared from the shower, returning minutes later herself
quite a bit dryer. She turned off the water and I returned to a state of
semi-reality. Ms. Martens had a large white towel with her and she began
drying me off. Soft and luxurious, the towel had been warmed, much like it
had been hanging over a radiator. Her touch seemed especially comforting,
and more familiar than ever. As she drew closer and reached around to dry my
backside, I rested my head upon her shoulder. She held me like a little
girl, as she stretched to unfasten my wrist restraints. As my body slumped
into her strong embrace, she held me there, hugging me, neither of us saying
anything.

`Come, dear. Let's tend to your punishment,' Ms. Martens finally quipped,
softly, with a kiss for my forehead, ending a delicious moment in
perfunctory manner.

`Punishment, Mistress? I don't understand.,' I pleaded meekly. `What did I
do?'

`You weren't given permission to cum, slave,' replied Ms. Martens, still
holding me. `I was certainly going to let you, that much I'll admit, but we
can't do this properly if there is to be no discipline, no control.'

This was all too much for me, given my weakened state. I broke down into
tears.

`Shhhhhh. Come now, slave,' said my Mistress almost pleadingly, wiping the
tears from my cheeks. `Don't worry. I'm confident you'll catch on. You have
too much potential not to,' assured the cruel domme, as she broke our
embrace and held the cherry red rubber ball gag in front of me.

I gulped resignedly and opened my mouth. Ms. Martens looked almost
conciliatory as she pushed the rubber ball past my teeth and set about
securing the straps. With my gag again strapped tightly in place, she sat me
down on the nearby bench and began fitting me with my white Keds once more.
On her knees before me, a mixed signal, tending to me like a little girl, my
every need, she confuses me.

Once my sneakers, my canvas rubber prisons, were tightly laced, Ms. Martens
pulled me to my feet and led me over to what looked like the vaulting horse
used in gymnastics. She positioned my feet more than shoulder length apart
and began fastening my ankles to the legs of the horse. Once my legs were
secured, Ms. Martens placed matching restraints around each of my wrists
before bending me over the horse and securing them to attachment points
along the legs of the horse. As I lied there bent over, my posterior
displayed like it was, the blood rushing to my head, I caught a glimpse of
Ms. Martens thoughtfully selecting a paddle from among many hanging on a
nearby wall.

`Day One,' I pondered, marking my time, `was it even noon yet?'