Date: Wed, 17 Mar 2004 08:32:21 +0000
From: M Martens <tentamen@hotmail.com>
Subject: House-sitting For My Mistress 4

My Mistress circled my prone form like a bird of prey, her gaze verifying
her preparations. I was Kedded and gagged once again, this time my helpless
young body offered up to her like a piece of slavemeat, racked and ready,
the vestiges of my will caving madly before a steady diet of compassion and
indifference.

My torso dangling from the apex of the horse, my eyes barely glimpsing
anything but the floor below, I focused on her navy blue Keds, the rubber
soles squeaking as she navigated the white ceramic tile, taunting me. Those
same simple Keds I had licked and worshipped a day earlier, forcefully, at
her behest, early testament to my descent into Her mad world.

I soon closed my eyes, feeling sorry for myself, after I caught a glimpse of
a large leather ping pong paddle which dangled ominously from my Mistress'
hand. Corporal punishment time.

`Do you realize this will be the first time I've put under the paddle since
you've been my fully avowed slave?' asked Ms. Martens delightedly.

I could not answer her with the gag filling my mouth, but I nodded my head
affirmatively. It might have been the first time I was going to be under the
paddle officially, as her `avowed' slave, but yesterday's dress rehearsal,
if you want to call it that, was by no means forgettable. My tortured ass
had stung far into the night as I feared it would again this evening.

Ms. Martens ended her ceremonial pacing and positioned herself beside,
rubbing the thick leather paddle softly across my backside, teasingly, a
mild prelude of the punishment to follow.

`I want you to keep count, slave. Understand?' taunted Ms. Martens.

I again nodded my head and without further ado, the paddle bit into my
tender flesh. Again and again, the first two dozen blows reigned down
chiefly on alternating cheeks, with an occasional smack finding the middle
both cheeks. Revisited by my tears, it became hard to count. The heartiest
of my muffled cries seemed only to elicit even harder blows on the
subsequent volley, as my cruel captor appeared to delight in my silent
screams and pitiful squirming.

After a lengthy barrage of very distinct and agonizing smacks, Ms. Martens
paused to taunt me, touching the paddle to my shoulders, neck, and face.
`Can you feel the heat, slave?' asked my taunting Mistress. I could indeed.
She wasn't joking. Not only that but the leather paddle almost seemed to
smell differently once it was warmed up.

`Do you think you've been adequately punished, slave?' questioned Ms.
Martens next.

I really didn't know what to do. If I nodded yes, I'm sure she'd punish me
further for my insolence. I already wore her clamps, so I was mindful of the
weight her inquisitive taunts carried. Had I shook my head no, I was sure
that further punishment likewise awaited me. What was I to do?

Retreating objectively, I tried to assume the mindset of a true submissive.
It was a bit drastic for me, but my almost instantaneous conclusion was that
I now existed solely to please Her, and that my wishes, my desires, and
certainly my whim were now subservient to her will. It no longer mattered
who I thought I was and what I wanted. She told me something akin to that
only a few hours ago, even if it did seem like the better part of an eon
removed. All that mattered now was what she wanted, and if she wanted to
spank me some more, I would welcome the attention, if not yet for my sake,
then for hers.

In response to her question, I shook my head no, that I hadn't been
adequately punished.

This must have pleased her, for she soon circled to the front of the horse
and unfastened my gag. `Give me a number, slave,' demanded Ms. Martens.

I swallowed the spit that had collected in the wake of my gag, and cleared
my throat. `Eighty-six, Mistress,' I declared.

`Eighty-six. Are you sure, slave?' wondered Ms. Martens. `I had it the
better part of seven dozen... that would make it eighty-four,' she calculated
aloud. `Are you sure?'

`Yes, Mistress,' I reiterated. `Eighty-six.'

`Well, perhaps you're right, slave. I'm going to trust you this time...'
assured Ms. Martens, surprising me with her mercy.

With that she retreated to one of the closets. I could only hold my head
aloft so long, as I was understandably exhausted from my ordeal, but I did
see her sorting through one of the closets of rubber I snooped upon during
my inaugural indiscretion. THE indiscretion. A simpleminded trespass just
yesterday morn, somehow leading to my current predicament.

Yesterday, so long ago, I was like any other student, one out of many,
enjoying the final weeks of a lingering summer, eagerly anticipating the
start of the fall semester. I was looking forward to the return of my
roommates and friends, when next we could earn adulation and celebrate
these, the best days of our lives. And now, I am privy to mixed majesty, a
cruelty so previously alien to me and a nurturing so intimate, so
refreshing, and so strangely comforting that I cannot resist its allure.

This was personal. I was enrolled. I was learning what could neither be
gleamed within the cold marble auspices of a university library nor the
confines of a common classroom. Unfamiliar theories no longer permeated the
air, and legacy left me. No longer was I a student of the past, a past so
long ago etched in the annuls with little regard that I might someday beer
witness to its ambiguities, an objective observer, inconsequential and
unnoticed. Instead I was learning about me, and I had chanced upon a most
gifted teacher.

And regarding my indiscretion, that singular chain of pivotal events, what
might have been different had I not been caught? Would I have been able to
resist temptation and ignore the playroom and its contents altogether,
closing the door immediately when I realized and conferred the privacy it
warranted? Would I be able to tend to Ms. Martens' house while pretending to
ignore the potential perversion that festered below? And once discovered,
would I have been able to resist the call of the racks of rubber, knowing
full well that two weeks of stifled curiosity would prove the tallest order?
Moreover, what if Ms. Martens hadn't returned to find me snooping? Or if she
had even planned on leaving in the first place?! Had she cast me as a mouse
in a maze of forbidden fruit, knowing full well that I'd take the bait?
Maybe someday I'd have the chance to ask her.

When Ms. Martens returned from the closet, she placed several bags on the
bench beside the dreaded horse and then set about unfastening my arms. Once
free of the wrist restraints, I was aided to a standing position. My legs
were still strapped apart, and both the ball gag and nipple clamps bore
further testimony to my submissive status, not to mention the stinging pain
which still dominated my backside. When Ms. Martens caught me staring
sideways at the bags on the bench, she snapped for me to keep my eyes
forward. I thought it wise to obey.

When she took a position directly behind me, I thought I was in for more
punishment. Instead, she reached around and carefully removed the nipple
clamps that had been my companions for the better part of a few hours. As
numb as my nipples had become, I was quite relieved at their removal. She
then rubbed my butt, appraising the damage she had wrought with the paddle.

`You're on fire still, slave,' uttered Ms. Martens, a trace of sympathy in
her voice. She knelt down and placed an enduring kiss on my cheek, and then
another, kissing all over. Her kisses and gentle caresses felt tender and
soothing. `Does that feel better?' she wondered.

I nodded affirmatively, appreciative of her kindness. Of course, it was her
that dispensed the pain in the first place, but I guess I kind of deserved
it. Wait a Minute!! What was I saying?! Was I really that malleable?

She continued to kiss and soothe my ass, her hands rubbing my inner thighs
more and more, venturing closer to my womanhood. I moaned quietly but
excitedly.

`I'm proud of you, slave,' added Ms. Martens, `you took your punishment
well.'

I smiled, slightly, abuzz with a strange sense of pride, a foolish selfless
kind of pride. A slave's pride. An instant of kindness, a singular moment of
tenderness and compassion in a sea of cruelty, proving the makeweight, far
outweighing a hundred more instances of indifference. A slave's folly, I
conceded, but perhaps I could no better change my nature than could Ms.
Martens or any of us for that matter.

Soothingly and teasingly, my mistress continued to gently stroke me,
savoring the way I responded to her, like earthen clay before a potter. She
continued this for at least another divine minute before interjecting,
`Slave, do you think it's time we got you into some rubber?' I emphatically
nodded my head.

With that Ms. Martens stood up and began undoing my gag. She positioned her
feet between mine and pressed herself upon me, grinding our hips together,
her hands reaching around finding my nipples with a sensitivity not at all
tendered by the clamps... those torturous clamps.

Ms. Martens reached around my head and my world went dark, as she finished
securing a padded rubber blindfold over my eyes. She obviously wanted to
disable one of my senses, but for what purpose, to heighten the others?

Still pressing upon me, Ms. Martens guided my unshackled hands rearward,
placing them on her rubber-covered hips, a gesture I wouldn't even consider
without permission, a gesture far too presumptuous of a novice slave like
myself. It felt wonderful to TOUCH her, to feel her rubber. It felt
wonderful to again hold my Mistress. A reward so great, I hated myself for
admitting it, that I'd endure a dozen more paddlings just to reap.

`You like the feel of my rubber then, slave?' prompted Ms. Martens.

`Oh, god yes, Mistress. Thank you,' I purred gratefully.

`Can you imagine you and me, someday, together in bed, both of us in full
rubber, head to toe, rubber everywhere...' she teased.

Moaning lustfully and hopelessly, I did indeed imagine such a paradise, our
own little rubber utopia. I could see it most clearly in my increasingly
perverted mind. I conceded breathlessly, `Yes, Mistress, I can... I can see
it. My only desire now is to be everything you want me to be.'

`Can you imagine the electricity, slave, of being sundered by orgasm after
orgasm? The total and complete surrender to pleasure we might someday
experience together..?' anticipated Ms. Martens, in a gentle whisper. `I
can, slave, that's why I so glad you decided to join me,' she further
confessed in an uncharacteristic manner, adding a kiss to my earlobe.
Uncharacteristic, perhaps, but utterly appreciated. Another little reward
reaped.

She held something rubber up to my face. `SMELL this,' she urged. I did so,
drinking in its delicious aroma. Heady. Pungent. Powerful. Her hands, her
whisperings, her presence, all conspiring, conditioning me even further,
ensuring my response, her own little Pavlovian slave.

`I want you to TASTE it,' furthered Ms. Martens, grinding me harder, our
hips inseparable, her rubbery bosom warm upon my back. As I opened my mouth
to receive my rubbery gift, Ms. Martens pushed it further into my mouth,
gathers and wrinkles of rubber providing avenues for my tongue to explore as
rubber squeaked audibly along my teeth. I wanted more.

When she finally removed the delicious presence from my mouth, she bade me
to raise my arms, as she began pulling the clinging rubber over my
outstretched form. I listened more intently to the unique SOUND of the
rubber snapping and squeaking into place, ebbing and flowing, lifelike,
mimicking my form, adaptable and malleable like me. As straps settled upon
my shoulders and Ms. Martens smoothed the rubber over my breasts, I
concluded that she had fitted me my first rubber top. When I felt the cool
air again upon my nipples, I feared that they were being left purposely
exposed for ease of access.

Ms. Martens then fitted me with a pair of rubber gloves. She ordered me to
raise each arm in turn as sleek latex slithered over my hands, encasing each
finger with finality as the rubber snapped into place and Ms. Martens
meticulously smoothed any remaining air pockets form the gloves. They felt
fairly thick and fit snugly, offering noticeable resistance as I made a
fist.

I then felt Ms. Martens pulling my arms behind my back, ordering me to
intertwine my fingers and keep my arms close together. I soon felt something
encircling my arms, like a rubber single glove. Ms. Martens yanked and
tugged on the glove, pulling it upward well above my elbows. I was pulled to
my toes like a little ragdoll at the forcefulness of her efforts. She then
began to tighten the strange implement, drawing my arms tightly together
behind my back so that my elbows were almost touching, simultaneously
testing my flexibility while constricting me uncomfortably.

My upper body now helplessly immobilized, Ms. Martens then unfastened the
thick restraints that held my legs spread apart. I was left standing there
for a few minutes while I heard Ms. Martens rummaging around the room,
opening and closing drawers, running water and sliding closet doors. When
she returned, she grabbed hold of my left ankle and told me to raise my leg
while she slid something over my sneakered foot, before bidding me to
likewise raise my right leg. I felt something clingy being drawn up my legs
to about my knees. That's when I felt Ms. Martens fingers expertly part my
lips and something slender being inserted in my pussy. I heard a slight
swishing sound like Ms. Martens was squeezing something and I felt a cool
substance filling my canal. After she withdrew whatever it was inside me,
leaving behind the viscous residue, she did the same thing to my ass,
pushing the slender device past my anus and similarly filling my ass with
the weighty substance.

I again felt her drawing something clingy and cool further up my hips. It
wasn't long before her skilled hands guided two rubbery phalluses inside of
my freshly lubed orifices. My ass and pussy were now reclaimed in accordance
with her forbearances. As Ms. Martens smoothed her hands over what I
reasoned were another pair of rubber panties, I was relieved that the
rubbery dildo and plug that now filled me seemed smaller than the ones I had
to wear the night before. Finally, I felt Ms. Martens fastening something
around each of ankles, and with that, she turned her attentions to my head.

She first removed my ball gag and placed it aside. Ordering me to keep my
eyes closed until I was told otherwise, Ms. Martens then removed the
blindfold. She then started pulling something over my head. At first I
thought it was a swim cap, but as she stretched a portion of it over my
face, I could tell that it was some sort of rubber hood. I got a little
scared at first, sealed into the tight, suffocating rubber, but as soon as
Ms. Martens smoothed out the wrinkles and properly positioned the thick
rubber hood, I discovered that I could breathe freely though an opening for
both my nostrils and another for my mouth.

I then felt Ms. Martens leading me by the shoulders around the room. I could
barely walk, as whatever she fastened to my ankles did not have much slack.
I was so effectively hobbled that I almost fell my first few steps, and
surely I would have if not for my Mistress holding me. I soon adjusted to my
predicament by hobbling along, taking very short steps.

`You may now open your eyes, slave,' declared Ms. Martens.

When I did so, I saw my own reflection in a full-length mirror. After my
eyes adjusted to the bright lights of the playroom, I saw myself as a true
rubberslave for the first time. I was clad in a tight black rubber ensemble,
which I took in piece by piece, savoring its presence for the first time.
First, I stared at my sleek rubber hood. It covered my whole head except for
two openings for my eyes, two smaller openings for my nostrils, and an
oval-shaped opening just big enough for my mouth.

Next I focused on my black rubber bra. It was quite thick and sculpting, and
it did wonders for my cleavage, showing me off as never before. As I
surmised during my fitting, the bra featured a pair of cut-outs for my
nipples, which I had already feared guaranteed easy access for more
diabolical purposes. Strangely enough, however, I really enjoyed the sight
of my own tits so prominently displayed. I never looked so sleazy and yet so
stunning.

The same could be said about the high-waisted black rubber panties which
hugged my hips and accentuated my curves as never before. The stark contrast
of the black rubber against my fair skin was likewise remarkable. One note
of concern however was the pair of inflation bulbs that dangled ominously
from my rubbery crotch, swinging to and fro as I moved about, assessing my
rubbery form.

Turning sideways, I could glimpse the thick rubber bondage sleeve that held
my arms behind my back, causing my breasts to jut ever forward. It featured
more straps and buckles than I had spied on any previous bondage implement.
And neither did I forget to appraise the short locking gate that connected
my rather thick black rubber ankle restraints together, thereby ensuring my
hobble.

In one of her more thoughtful gestures, Ms. Martens held up a sport bottle
filled with water and placed the integrated straw upon my lips. `Here, you
must be thirsty, slave,' suggested Ms. Martens, `drink this.' I thirstily
sipped the cool water, as the festivities thus far had left me quite
parched. It was a welcome, if brief, respite. I gratefully thanked my
Mistress for the drink, as she wiped the excess from my chin with her
finger.

Ms. Martens then took to polishing my rubberized form, first with a damp
cloth to remove any traces of the talc which dusted the inside of most of
the rubber, and then with a second cloth filled with some kind of polish. As
she buffed the sleek rubber, it took on a high gloss and I looked even more
the part of a sleazy and submissive rubberslave. Not only that, but she took
extra care to buff me with a sensuality obviously designed to tease me and
elicit a reaction. A reaction I easily yielded. I moaned softly and
approvingly, but not so ungraciously as to merit additional punishment. I
thought I was beginning to catch on. Purposely and seductively, she
continued to shine me until I was gleaming, both on the outside and then,
too, also on the inside.

Furthermore, Ms. Martens gave me a vocabulary lesson as she polished my
nubile form like a trophy. She explained the difference between my
full-faced rubber hood and an open-faced one like the one she wore yesterday
when she fucked my ass unmercifully. She also told me that there were even
more devious hoods, such as hoods without eye openings and extra `plumbing.'
I didn't really like the sound of that, but I was also sure I would find out
all about them in time whether I was interested or not. She also mentioned
that the bra I was wearing was usually termed a `peephole bra' for obvious
reasons, and further that I was fitted with what were referred to as `pump
panties' because they featured inflatable plugs which could be pumped up to
any desired size.

It wasn't two seconds later when she grabbed ahold of the inflation bulb
which hung from my pussy and gave it a series of five slow and deliberate
squeezes, causing the inflatable dildo within me to swell to sensational
proportions. `Can you take another five, slave?' asked an interested Ms.
Martens.

As much as the first five proved pleasurable, I knew that the next five
might prove painful. Furthermore, I knew that she probably planned on
inflating me some more whether I conceded or not. I however wanted to please
my Mistress so I told her that I could handle it. Once again, a slave's
pride.

Five delicious pumps later, I was nearly giddy, having never been so
tremendously and overwhelmingly filled. Taking note of my excitement, Ms.
Martens quipped, `I'm glad to see you so enthusiastic, dear. Are you just as
enthusiastic about getting your ass pumped?'

`Of course, Mistress,' I responded softy, trying to hide my reservations at
the prospect of having my ass similarly filled. `I want to please you.'

`Good, then let's begin with the same ten pumps,' declared Ms. Martens. As
the bulb hissed into action in her eager palm, she added, `we can always add
more as you deserve.'

Did that mean I would get more pumps if I misbehaved, or was I really
supposed to think of it somehow as a reward, me getting my ass inflated?! I
figured it was something a true slave would see clearly. My training was
still incomplete. I had made strides, but I was neither where I needed to be
nor where I wanted to be. This clouded some of my earlier euphoria, leaving
me a bit uncertain. One step forward, two steps back. A slave's folly.

As I pondered, she slowly worked the attached bulb ten times, fully
constricting it before releasing her grip and allowing air to refill the
bulb. Henceforth, I bet I'd never be able to keep a straight face at the
doctor's office when they checked my blood pressure. Nor would I soon be
able to ignore the feeling of fullness the inflatables brought. As far as
discipline goes, it felt understandably different to be filled at my
Mistress' hand as compared to other, more external forms of punishment like
the paddling. These periodic impalings I was enduring at her hands were
decidedly more intimate and somehow simultaneously serene, as they required
a great deal of trust.

Ms. Martens termed all of this as putting me `under the pump.' I had already
been `under the bag,' as she called it, in addition to being under the clamp
and the paddle. What else was I to be put under, I wondered resignedly.

One last detail awaited. Ms. Martens held up one more rubbery phallus for me
to contemplate. `Open your mouth and lick it,' commanded Ms. Martens, `lick
it lovingly, like you want it.'

As I instinctively obeyed, dedicating my oral energies to licking and
kissing the pungent phallus, Ms. Martens did likewise, much to my surprise.
She and I mingled at the fringe of the rubber plug, our suckles mingling
intermittently, like some bizarre triple kiss. I grew increasingly aroused,
as she occasionally withdrew the rubber plug altogether, choosing instead to
kiss only me, before reintroducing the pungency to our wet mingle. And she
was again grinding me, this time form the front, causing the rubbery
intruders within me to shift ever so slightly, ever so teasingly. Her other
hand massaged my rubber-encased ass, triumphantly grabbing an occasional
handful and squeezing me tightly. Once again, she brought me to the brink of
orgasm, only to be denied.

`Control yourself, slave,' whispered Ms. Martens, softly under our kiss.
`Remember, you are not allowed to cum unless I give you permission,' she
further declared. `Is that understood?'

`Yes, Mistress,' I uttered, with only the slightest frustration betraying my
acquiescence.

`Yes what, slave?' Ms. Martens further prompted.

`I am only to cum when given permission, Mistress,' I clarified.
`Good. That's what I wanted to hear,' she told me, as she withdrew her kiss
and traced the rubber plug around my lips one last time before inserting it
into my mouth. A thick strap was then fastened around my head, thereby
holding the rubbery mass in place. Ms. Martens proceeded to squeeze the
inflation bulb I had not hitherto seen for lack of sufficient perspective,
and the last of my orifices swelled with delicious rubber. Horny like the
hungry little rubberslut Ms. Martens swore I'd become, I was now thrice
pumped; my mouth, my vagina, and my ass, all deliciously violated and
controlled by Her.

`Now then, let me show you to your room, slave,' Ms. Martens said gleefully,
as she gestured for me to hobble after her.

Ms. Martens led me to a door near the rear of the playroom. I had noticed it
yesterday in my snooping, but it was locked, and the small tinted window
would not reveal its contents to my gaze. From a hook just above the door,
she removed a large silver loop with a single key attached to it. She
unlocked and opened the heavy steel-clad door and bade me to precede her.

Once inside, I drank in the stark depravity of the room and was likewise
reminded of the bizarre helplessness of my situation. The room was mostly
white, with a ceramic-tiled floor and an ample array of fluorescent lights
punctuating the suspended ceiling, making the room quite bright. To my left
was a full-size bed covered in thick shiny rubber sheets, including
pillowcases. At either end of the bed were what looked like stocks, with
several pairs of padded holes embedded in black lacquered foot and
headboards, not to mention several additional eyebolts which could likewise
serve as attachment points.

To my right was what also looked like a bed, but certainly unlike any I had
ever seen. Sensing my puzzlement, Ms. Martens stood closely behind me and
explained. `I can tell you've never seen a vacuum bed, have you, dear?' I
shook my head no. `Well, you lie between the two sheets of rubber, and then
all of the air is sucked out between the layers, thereby sandwiching you
inside. Breathing is accomplished though a series of tubes. It's totally
safe -- you'll have to trust me,' she added with a pause. I wanted to trust
her.

She nuzzled even closer and continued, `When you're ready, I'll build you up
in layers and layers of restrictive rubber, like a rubber cocoon. It's
entirely immobilizing, the strictest bondage you can imagine. It will be an
awakening for you. You'll see,' she assured me, still whispering and rubbing
my shoulders tenderly. This made me feel more comfortable, or at least as
much as could be expected, given the weight of the situation.

`And this here is your lounging chair,' declared Ms. Martens, as she turned
me by my shoulders to behold what looked like a rubber-coated dentist chair.
There were thick rubber straps and buckles all up and down the chair, from
the headrest to the base. It scared me more than the vacbed even, since it
reminded me of something you'd see in a torture chamber or something.

Resting upon the headrest was a set of headphones connected to a stereo
panel recessed into the wall. Ms. Martens picked up a small stack of CDs
from a nearby shelf and shuffled through them. `Let's see what we've got
here. Billie Holiday, Nina Simone, Sarah Vaughan, Carole King, Everything
But The Girl, Massive Attack, Stereolab, and look, Smetana's `The Bartered
Bride.' How appropriate,' she mocked, somehow hinting at the similarities
between my own servitude and the transience of such bridedom. That's at
least what I figured from the comment. Who knows what moves my Mistress...
it's certainly beyond my reckoning, at least for now.

The fact that Ms. Martens placed so much emphasis on whatever musical
selections she had available helped assuage my fears somewhat. But like many
of her reassurances, the feeling was to be short-lived, as she told me to
look closer at a display case which hung on the wall near the foot of my
rubber covered bed. Upon closer inspection, I saw that the case contained an
almost artistic array of black rubber dildos on the upper shelf and a
corresponding row of butt plugs on the bottom shelf. The case itself
appeared to be made out of teak and was backlit against an opaque panel of
white Lucite, much like a display of fine cognac you'd find in an upscale
lounge. As I stared further, I noticed the dildos and plugs were arranged by
size in an ascending order from left to right, each of six pairs labeled
according to the day of the week. Six pairs, I thought to myself. What
happens on the seventh day? And today was already Tuesday.

As I gaped, Ms. Martens interjected. `As you've probably guessed by now, I'm
a big believer in inflatables, but sometimes a more rigid insertable is
required. You are to train with these.'

I just stared resignedly at the artful yet insidious arrangement. The
Tuesday set appeared modest, given the attention I had already received, but
there was no way I could handle the monsters awaiting me come Friday and
especially Saturday. I had already figured out, especially with regards to
the anal toys, that the inflatable variety was more merciful, since in their
deflated state they fit quite readily up my ass. Now that's not to say they
couldn't prove torturous upon inflation, but in the case of a rigid plug,
the widest portion would have to pass through my anus before any relief
could be found in the smaller, tapered diameter of its base. And then, too,
there was the question of removal. My speculations were confirming what I
knew from my earlier enema ordeal: I was in for a rough two weeks.

`One final note, slave,' insisted Ms. Martens, gesturing, `You'll notice
that there are cameras in each corner of the room as well as microphones, so
I'll always be able to monitor you even if I'm not present. Not only that
but the entire basement is quite fireproof, I assure you. No expense has
been spared to make sure that you are safe at all times. Understand?'

I nodded affirmatively, ironically flattered by my Mistress's compassion and
tenderness - a tenderness hinted at in the shower, and a compassion scarcely
revealed, whether prone upon the horse or under the bag, as Ms. Martens
referred to the enema treatments.

My Mistress sat down on the bed and commanded me, `Kneel.' She turned the
thumbscrew on the inflation bulb for my pump gag, thus releasing the air. As
the gag hissed and deflated, she removed it from my mouth while
simultaneously unzipping her rubber suit. After she loosened the straps, the
rubber bladder hung limply around my neck, my hooded face covered in my own
saliva. Ms. Martens grabbed my rubber-encased head and guided me to her
waiting crotch. Leaning back, Ms. Martens placed her thighs upon my
shoulders and scooted into position, her hand still grasping my head firmly.

`Now, slave. What did I tell you?'

I nestled my head as best I could deeply in her crack, my tongue already
seeking my prize, muttering softly, `I am always to start my oral servitude
with your anus, Mistress.'

`Very good, slave,' chimed Ms. Martens delightedly.

I paused for the briefest of seconds, looking up from my oral ministrations.
`Thank you,' I said politely. I meant for everything.

I met Ms. Martens' knowing gaze. I knew she understood as she smiled softly
back at me, before finding a rubbery pillow and settling back again. I
shivered, delighting in the moment, and then I went back to work.


(Your comments are always appreciated: tentamen@hotmail.com)

Copyright 2004 by tentamen