A Weekend Favour for Sister (FF/MM, F/M, FFF/M) Part 2 added
Posted: Wed Apr 05, 2023 11:47 am
Story catalog description: A Weekend Favour for Sister (FF/MM, F/M, FFF/M) (MA)
I hear my dear, sweet wife repeat the question a second time, louder, and more sternly, "Answer me slave! Are you comfy!"
Being gagged, mouth stuffed with my wife's used panties, held in place with a tightly strapped and locked ball-gag, which in turn is held in place by a head-harness with built-in panel gag , there is no way I can answer; all I can do is moan incomprehensibly as I feel my wife, my sweet Lucille, or in this specific context, Mistress Ember, grab, pinch and twist my right earlobe. I moan louder five more incomprehensibly syllables, trying to utter "yes Mistress Ember."
I wish I could turn my head and stare into my wife's beautiful emerald green eyes, but the head-harness is locked to a padded rectangular post that runs from the floor to the ceiling, and is forcing me to stare straight ahead, unable to look in any other direction or even twist my head in the slightest. My wife releases my earlobe and stands before me, but trussed-up as I am to this bondage post, all I can see is the top of her fiery curly-haired head.
"Good boy," she says, and as she does so, she tickles both my exposed underarms. I cannot do anything but endure the merciless tickles, as I can barely squirm. My arms are extended as far as they can go, far above my head, wrist cuffs locked tightly to the post near its top, elbows also strapped to the sides of the post, forcing me to stand on my toes, clad in opaque blue tights, straining against the ankle cuffs that are locked together and also locked to the post. If it weren't for the thick leather straps binding me to the post around my corseted waist, around my chest just below my fake breasts, and around my thighs, my ankles and arms would have surely given by now. The tight fitting, long-sleeved, mock-turtlenecked, shiny black leotard that I wear under the corset and which holds my fake breasts in place merely accentuates the inescapable tickles my underarms are forced to endure. I'm grateful in the moment that my wife is not subjecting me to similar tickles at the straining soles of feet, toes barely pressing into the thin purple yoga mat laid out to cover the concrete floor underneath.
My wife, my mistress, stops ticking me and steps aside to my left, as she now grabs my left earlobe, and hear her whisper up into my left ear as she pulls down on the earlobe, "like what you see?"
What I see is a hooded man, slim, and well built, obviously an avid gym member. He's trussed up to an identical bondage post like mine, padded black leather post, about 8 feet away from me. Unlike me, he is fortunate enough to be in high-heels, with at least 4 inch heels, locked around his sheer black nylon stocking clad legs. I say fortunate, because the shoes must offer some extra support which I lack, even if his shoes are directly in contact with the concrete floor. His legs and arms are clean shaven, as well as his crotch area, which has a mean looking chastity cage locked onto his manhood and around his blue balls. His black sheer stockings are held up by suspenders attached to his underbust pink lace corset. Unlike me, however, he does not have fake breasts, but clover clamps pinching his nipples, joined by a chain, with small weights dangling from the chain's centre. I cannot see his face, completely hidden by the hood, but he is strapped to his bondage post at the ankles, thighs, waist, elbows and wrists, just like me; only the chest strap is missing for him, presumably to not interfere with the nipple clamps.
However, what I see that is somewhat unsettling to me, and still need to come to terms with after all these years, is the person who stands next to man, fully decked-out in a skintight black latex catsuit, in six-inch black patent leather pumps, wielding a leather crop that is gently stroking the poor man's (or lucky man's) pinched nipples. It is non other than Princess Stella, or should I say, out of this context, my sweet little sister Margaret.
For this is her dungeon as a dominatrix, a dungeon she co-owns with a friend of hers, Mistress Raven, who happens to be out of town this weekend.
(To be continued ...)
A Weekend Favour for Sister
Part 1---"Are you comfy, slave?"
I hear my dear, sweet wife repeat the question a second time, louder, and more sternly, "Answer me slave! Are you comfy!"
Being gagged, mouth stuffed with my wife's used panties, held in place with a tightly strapped and locked ball-gag, which in turn is held in place by a head-harness with built-in panel gag , there is no way I can answer; all I can do is moan incomprehensibly as I feel my wife, my sweet Lucille, or in this specific context, Mistress Ember, grab, pinch and twist my right earlobe. I moan louder five more incomprehensibly syllables, trying to utter "yes Mistress Ember."
I wish I could turn my head and stare into my wife's beautiful emerald green eyes, but the head-harness is locked to a padded rectangular post that runs from the floor to the ceiling, and is forcing me to stare straight ahead, unable to look in any other direction or even twist my head in the slightest. My wife releases my earlobe and stands before me, but trussed-up as I am to this bondage post, all I can see is the top of her fiery curly-haired head.
"Good boy," she says, and as she does so, she tickles both my exposed underarms. I cannot do anything but endure the merciless tickles, as I can barely squirm. My arms are extended as far as they can go, far above my head, wrist cuffs locked tightly to the post near its top, elbows also strapped to the sides of the post, forcing me to stand on my toes, clad in opaque blue tights, straining against the ankle cuffs that are locked together and also locked to the post. If it weren't for the thick leather straps binding me to the post around my corseted waist, around my chest just below my fake breasts, and around my thighs, my ankles and arms would have surely given by now. The tight fitting, long-sleeved, mock-turtlenecked, shiny black leotard that I wear under the corset and which holds my fake breasts in place merely accentuates the inescapable tickles my underarms are forced to endure. I'm grateful in the moment that my wife is not subjecting me to similar tickles at the straining soles of feet, toes barely pressing into the thin purple yoga mat laid out to cover the concrete floor underneath.
My wife, my mistress, stops ticking me and steps aside to my left, as she now grabs my left earlobe, and hear her whisper up into my left ear as she pulls down on the earlobe, "like what you see?"
What I see is a hooded man, slim, and well built, obviously an avid gym member. He's trussed up to an identical bondage post like mine, padded black leather post, about 8 feet away from me. Unlike me, he is fortunate enough to be in high-heels, with at least 4 inch heels, locked around his sheer black nylon stocking clad legs. I say fortunate, because the shoes must offer some extra support which I lack, even if his shoes are directly in contact with the concrete floor. His legs and arms are clean shaven, as well as his crotch area, which has a mean looking chastity cage locked onto his manhood and around his blue balls. His black sheer stockings are held up by suspenders attached to his underbust pink lace corset. Unlike me, however, he does not have fake breasts, but clover clamps pinching his nipples, joined by a chain, with small weights dangling from the chain's centre. I cannot see his face, completely hidden by the hood, but he is strapped to his bondage post at the ankles, thighs, waist, elbows and wrists, just like me; only the chest strap is missing for him, presumably to not interfere with the nipple clamps.
However, what I see that is somewhat unsettling to me, and still need to come to terms with after all these years, is the person who stands next to man, fully decked-out in a skintight black latex catsuit, in six-inch black patent leather pumps, wielding a leather crop that is gently stroking the poor man's (or lucky man's) pinched nipples. It is non other than Princess Stella, or should I say, out of this context, my sweet little sister Margaret.
For this is her dungeon as a dominatrix, a dungeon she co-owns with a friend of hers, Mistress Raven, who happens to be out of town this weekend.
(To be continued ...)