The Kitchen Floor
Exciting things happen when Mistress Melissa leaves me bound and gagged - until a stranger barges in.
A quiet tension settled. Behind me Melissa – Mistress Melissa as she was now – rummaged through her bag. Things were taken out. Exciting things.
“I’ve been saving these up for a week or more,” she said casually. “Beats washing them. Lie here.”
I shuffled around on the kitchen floor, careful not to bump into my unfamiliar surroundings. An involuntary flash of excitement burst outwards from where she gently touched me.
“Nervous fellow, aren’t you?”
My memory struggled to recall the apartment’s kitchen. Against one wall a collection of cupboards organised around a worktop with a sink at one end, a fitted cooker at the other. Opposite a small breakfast table with two chairs. Then a door leading into the narrow space between them facing a long window looking out over the block opposite.
“Ah, this first.”
Socks, probably a pair. Bundled together a pressed into my willing mouth. I revelled in the taste of her sweat and dirt. My head lifted and she wrapped tape around me two or three times, keeping the gag firmly in place. I would have thanked her.
“I wore these for both my workouts,” she said as the panties pulled down over my head. The gusset rested on my nose, her rich smell swamping my senses. More tape, this time robbing me of sight. “Like this?”
I nodded.
“Thought so. Now these I wore at work.”
So it began. We worked together at first, me wriggling and lifting my body, she sliding the panty-hose and leggings over me. As the layers mounted so it became more difficult to move, the nylon and spandex and cotton fighting me at every turn. Each layer had a story, relayed in a matter-of-fact voice that was as humiliating as the act itself. Nine pairs in total, each double layered and alternated between sliding up my legs and down my body.
“Trouble breathing?”
I nodded and she squatted on my chest. The mummy was pulled away from my nose and I heard the faint snip of scissors. Air flowed in to my world for a moment, until she pressed a tube into each nostril. Tape wrapped around my head.
“And a little something special.”
She turned and I felt the scissors again. Thumb and forefinger gripped my cock, pulling it out into the cool air. I shuddered. She ignored me and pulled the rest of my genitals through the small hole she’d made. Tape made sure the hole grew no larger than necessary.
“This is something a little special,” she said as she snapped the first band onto the shaft of my cock. A second dug into my scrotum, a third around the base of my genitals. “I’m going for a coffee at the café on the corner, but don’t worry. I’ll still have control of you.”
A sharp, prickling pain shocked my cock and I grunted against the gag. Three more followed in quick succession.
“It’s connected to the wifi and I control it from my phone,” she told me. It was the last I heard from her before the sound-cancelling headphones covered my ears.
--
The torture was intense and at times deliciously unbearable. I lay alone on the floor of her kitchen, wrapped in layers of her clothes, silenced and forced to focus on my breathing. Long periods of silence were punctuated by jolts of electricity shocking my genitals. Sometimes they were short, sharp stabs of pain, other times prolonged pulsating agony. That Mistress was torturing me from afar, that she didn’t think it necessary to stay with me, that she’d abandoned me, made it worse.
If this was what she wanted it was what I had to endure. After weeks of chatting online and performing tasks remotely for her, I’d finally met her in the flesh. She was everything she’d promised: a cruel humiliatrix willing to indulge my fantasy, albeit with her own sadistic twist.
Another jolt exploded in my burning cock. It was far more powerful than anything she’d delivered before and I cried out as best the sock-gag would allow. Exhausted and struggling to draw breath through my nose, I sagged back onto the floor.
Even with the faint hiss of the earphones I could tell she was back in the apartment. There was a change of pressure as the front door opened and closed. I tensed, waiting for her to enter the kitchen, only there was silence. Movement somewhere else. The toilet flushed.
A steady stream of stabbing pinpricks cut into me. I moaned, almost missing the kitchen door opening. The pain continued, almost hiding the sensation of being stepped over twice before she sat on a chair at the kitchen table.
Nothing. No interaction with me. No acknowledgement I existed. Just the occasional sharp shocks from the band and my agonising moans as the pain ripped into my vulnerable genitals.
I wanted to beg her to stop. I wanted to plead for the pain to end. Yet I wanted more. Much more. Such a beautifully cruel woman. Such a Goddess.
“What the fuck is this?”
The voice was not Melissa’s. Even the mumbling induced by the earphones couldn’t hide the different accent and tone. I frozen in horror, only for a sharp stab to trick me into crying out.
“Are you fucking filming this?”
“Yeah. Gotta get content for my fans.”
I was being filmed. My agony had been captured for everyone to see. Was it live? Had they seen my face? Another burst of pain robbed me of my indignation and sent me crashing back into a world of pain and humiliation.
“Told you before, this is my fucking home,” shouted the stranger. “I don’t want this shit happening here.”
“Got a right to have a sex life.”
“Yeah, but not broadcast my fucking home all over Facebook.”
The argument moved out of the kitchen and became a background rumble. A door slammed, someone shouted, a rapid sequence of escalating prickles overwhelmed my senses and I added to the noise. It lasted far longer than any previous torture and ended just as the stranger shouted, “And don’t fucking come back.”
A door slammed.
Silence settled. I strained to hear something – anything – through the dull hiss of the earphones. I could sense movement, feel steps vibrating through the floor. They were in another room. Had I been forgotten?
A new sensation made itself known. Whatever I’d called “fear” in the past was nothing compared to this. An intense terror ripped into me, amplifying every terrified thought rushing through my head. I was helpless on a stranger’s floor. Bound, blinded, silenced and deaf. If I struggled I risked drawing attention, if I stayed still I would be remembered eventually. Maybe I could find a way to sneak through the bonds.
Gently my hands teased the tight nylon pressing firmly. My efforts lasted only a few seconds before I realised how useless it was. Layers of materials stretched tight, just as I had hoped barely an hour before. Now my desire to be helpless worked against me.
Footsteps heard and felt. The stranger was returning and I didn’t know whether to struggle or lie still. I chose the latter, struggling to hear her.
“Oh for fuck’s sake. You still here?”
My heart skipped as a foot dragged against me. She must have stepped over my cocoon.
“Fucking perverts the lot of you.”
I couldn’t move, not because of the bondage but the paralysing fear that tensed every muscle in my body. She was close, I could sense it. Maybe crouching down? Maybe inspecting me?
My cock twitched.
The last thing on my mind was my penis. Yet now it snapped into sharp focus and I realised it was still erect. It was also the only part of me the stranger could see. I felt a twinge of guilt.
“This what you like then? Being all helpless and shit? Guess you figured Mel’d let you out, only she’s fucked off.”
The way she spoke to me triggered fear again. It swept quickly through me and I began panting. I could feel the air whistling through the small tubes in my nose.
“I should leave you there until she comes and gets you,” the stranger said. “Thing is I don’t want some sicko on my kitchen floor with his penis hanging out.”
It felt like she half-knelt against me. Then she pulled at the fabric over my hands and I gasped.
“I’m cutting your hands out, then you get yourself out. You get fifteen minutes to get out or I call the cops.”
Scissors snipped at the fabric and I felt the tension snap away. The stranger just a long slit through the layers, then pressed the handles of the scissors into my hand.
“Don’t speak to me, don’t try and find me to say ‘sorry’, just get the fuck out of my apartment. And take all this shit with you.”
The kitchen door slammed. For a couple of seconds I lay still, not entirely sure I trusted I was alone. With no other option than to await for the police to arrive, I started cutting at the fabric, tracing a line across my stomach as quickly as I dared.
--
I know at the time it happened I was terrified. I know the stranger could have called the police on me, made up some story and I wouldn’t have been able to defend myself. I know it was a horrible situation for Melissa to put me in, whether I was her submissive or not.
And yet.
Over again I replayed that scene. It evolved, the terror become eroticised as the stranger became an active participant. She was a humiliatrix who found the poor mummified slave and did with him as she wished. And what delightful things she wished.
In the afterglow of another hand-induced orgasm, I looked at the small damp spot on the ceiling and let my mind wander back to the reality of what took place. I’d managed to cut myself free and found my clothes and bag dumped by the front door. With my heart pounding in my chest and my ears set to burst, I fled the scene and settled in a coffee shop where I waited a full hour to calm myself. At home I showered and salvaged what I could from my mummy. The black leggings with my cock pulled through, and the tights over my head were from the haul.
So too the electrics unit.
It sat in the drawer by my bedside table. I’d not touched it since I put it there, but it called to me. After I tossed the tissues in the toilet and washed my hands, I took it out and inspected it. A box about the size of a small phone with a blue display and buttons to control settings. With a bit of fiddling, I found the settings that connected it to my WiFi.
My phone rang and I answered it without thinking.
“Wondered how long it would take you to turn it on.”
How was I supposed to react? Scream at her down the phone for abandoning me? End the call and block her number? Demand she tell me why she left me there?
“Hello,” I said weakly.
“Have you put it on?”
“No.”
“You should.”
“You left me there on my own.”
There was a long silence, as if designed to torment me. Then she said, “Is that what you think?”
“You stormed off. It wasn’t even your place! Your flatmate or landlady or whatever had to cut me out.”
Again silence. I sensed her patience, and lack of remorse.
“Sure about that?”
Suddenly I wasn’t. My doubt was fed further when I heard the voice down the phone. It wasn’t muffled by sound-deadening earphones, but clear and bright and terrifying.
“I should leave you there until she comes and gets you,” the stranger said. “Thing is I don’t want some sicko on my kitchen floor with his penis hanging out.”
For a moment I was paralysed mentally and physically. Then the slow realisation I’d been played crept across and smothered me. What a fool I’d been to think so little of Mistress that she would abandon me. How shameful I would think so little of her.
“I thought you left me there. I’m sorry. I should’ve known better.”
“Why? You’re just a guy who pays me money to get off. What makes you think I wouldn’t dump on you the first chance I get?”
The coldness in her voice hit me hard in the chest. A payday was all I was to her. As long as I handed over my tributes I might be allowed to be with her again. My fantasies might be realised. Or pushed. Or destroyed. It was entirely up to her.
“Nothing, Mistress,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
I could hear her muffled sniggering. She’d held the phone away or put her finger over the mic to try and hide it. Or not. Either way, my shame and foolishness intensified. And my attraction towards her.
“Anyway, now I got a new rule for you.”
An assumption I would still play her games. She was right. She was always right. That was the first rule.
“Yes, Mistress?”
“When we do video or text chat you got to put the bands on and connect to WiFi.”
I looked at the power box in my hand.
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Good. I’ll be in touch about your next session in a couple of days.”
The line went dead. I lay back on my bed and sought out the small damp spot. Was I an idiot for thinking she would abandon me, or for hoping she had?
I closed my eyes and relived the time on Melissa’s floor.
Out now: Made to Measure Trophy
Swathed in made-to-measure latex, Yuriko is learning to dominate her neighbour.
Mistakes will be made...
Available to buy and read on Amazon Kindle