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No Holiday at the Beach Ch. 1

By: Saoadora



Part I. At the Airport

He waited anxiously for her at the Phuket Airport. He felt strange among the bustle of Thai hotel limousine drivers with confirmed guests and cabmen trying to hustle a fare. This American felt distinctly out of place. He held his sign stating simply "Mistress Wendy" to his chest. The flight from Singapore had arrived just fifteen minutes earlier. No need, he thought, to show the sign until the passengers were leaving baggage claim, and he was reasonably sure he would know her when he saw her.

And there she was. Rather tall, alone but surely confident, scanning among the waiting touts and family members gathered in the arrival lounge. She was more cute than beautiful. A fair-skinned Chinese lady, trim but strong, Cute as she was, the way she carried herself was downright sexy. She could own a man.

She wore a simple white cotton dress, rather short and buttoned down the front. Flesh toned pantyhose graced her long legs. They gave off a faint sort of metallic shimmer. Her lovely feet were partially displayed, as she wore brown, heeled sandals with open toes. She tipped her jet-black sunglasses, as shiny as her hair, to the end of she perfect nose and scanned the crowd. He knew her for sure, and shyly raised the sign, "Mistress Wendy". She nodded, let go of her two bags—surprisingly large for a weekend holiday—and waited for him to greet her.

Trembling, he moved forward and said, "Mistress Wendy. Welcome to Phuket. I will personally do my best to assure you have a pleasant holiday."

She smiled, a lovely but menacing smile, and said simply, "I hope so".

Part II. Chastened

After his first contact with Mistress Wendy, they had exchanged several emails. Describing themselves, their jobs, their homes, their fantasies and their limits. Soon enough they had agreed to meet in Phuket. For seventy-two hours he would be a real slave, and she a mistress.

They had set a few ground rules. No blood. No burns. No scars. No scat. No photos. No overtly public displays. No servicing of men. The rules about servicing other women were more vague. Actually there were no rules about other women, though he supposed that bringing other women into the picture might cross the line into public display. Beyond those simple rules, he was Mistress Wendy's entirely. Her slave. Her toy. Her property with which she could do entirely as she pleased. Moreover, he knew that once this thing started she would be in a position to bend or break the rules as she pleased. She would be in control, and he would be powerless to do anything about it.

His uncertainty about all of this was frightening, but also part of the thrill. His thoughts raced, as he carried her heavy bags to the rental car, making sure to reach it in time to get the bags stowed in the trunk and the rear door opened and waiting for his Mistress. He handed her the fresh coconut after he helped her into the seat. She had once mentioned how she loved fresh coconuts when vacationing at the beach. A nice touch, he thought. He hoped she would appreciate his remembering. She did, sort of.

"Good for you that you remembered I love coconuts. I would have been most disappointed had you not had one waiting for me." So it was between Mistress and slave. No thanks are offered. Remembering things and pleasing one's Mistress were expected and counted for nothing. Only forgetting and failing to please counted for anything, and that of course was bad.

As they drove he had a chance to study her in the rearview mirror. She might at anytime admonish him for such indulgence. Who was he to enjoy such a sight? He was not worthy. But clearly for now she wanted him to study her, to take in fully the lady who owned him. She sat in the rear on the opposite side of the car to give him a full view.

Her skin was nearly perfect. Soft looking. Light, but not pale. Though her eyes were shielded behind her dark glasses, he knew from the glimpse at the airport that they were big, dark brown, almost black, and penetrating. Beautiful eyes. Her full lips sensuously wrapped around the straw as she took a sip from the coconut. They were glossed with a deep, brownish red. Almost the color of dried blood, but with a sheen. He noticed her long fingernails and toenails were painted the same color.

He couldn't help noticing her toenails through the fabric of her hose. She lounged back in her seat, with her left leg crossed over her right so that her lovely foot dangled between and just behind the two front seats. It took a lot of willpower, and a sense of his place, not to reach over and caress it. To pull the car over and smother her foot in his kisses. Not yet, he knew.

She had unbuttoned the bottom two buttons of her sundress to free her legs and to afford him a tantalizing view of her perfect thighs. Her shimmering panty hose were exposed just to the point to reveal the beginning of the darker, reinforced fabric at the top.

Mistress Wendy was everything he desired, but she was not his. He was hers.

It was as if she could read his mind. "Slave, pull the car over. Over there," she ordered, pointing.

When they were stopped she said, "Unfasten your seatbelt and place your arms at your sides. Now." As he did so he noticed his erection had formed a tent in his shorts. It was not his mind she was reading, though she was probably capable of that too. She reached over and re-fastened the seatbelt so his wrists were pinned at his sides. She pulled the seat back in its full reclining position, pulling the belt tighter across his wrists and chest. She knelt on the back seat and bent over, her beautiful face a few inches above his. Her warm breath had a hint of coconut.

"Just look at you," she said as she grabbed his hair and pulled his head forward. "You embarrass me, slave. You have no control. I thought this could wait at least until we reached the resort." She reached into her large purse and pulled out an oblong metal cage with leather straps. A cock harness. She unfastened his shorts, and pulled them down to his knees, cursing him because the job was made more difficult in the confines of the car.

First Mistress Wendy tried simply to jam the cold iron over his member, but since he was now fully erect the cage would not quite fit. Her rough efforts were painful but also further arousing. He was afraid he would come and they had only been together for fifteen minutes or so. Finally she gave up and slammed the device on his chest.

She pulled his head back harshly by the hair. Then with one hand she pulled down his jaw and with the long fingers of her other hand she held his eyes wide open.

"You want me so bad so soon, slave? You must be crazy. You are not worthy to be near me, let alone to touch me or have that useless cock of yours satisfied." She had removed her sunglasses and was staring directly into his eyes. It was a glare so penetrating he could feel it. Her dark eyes were flashing, furious.

"You are not even worthy of my spit," she hissed. "Well maybe you are at that". She closed her mouth tightly, her plump lips working back and forth, then pursed her lips and let dangle a long chain of saliva. She briefly swung it back and forth just above his face, finally letting it settle onto the back of his tongue, and releasing it into the back of his mouth. She spat again, this time just a blast of spit, mostly into his mouth but spraying onto his face as well. It dribbled down his cheeks.

She let go of his head and reached again into her purse. This time she brought out a small bottle of baby oil.

"You don't deserve this kindness, but your Mistress is afraid we will never be able to get you properly harnessed without it. You have no control."

Indeed, his recent treat of her sweet spittle—and the dominant way in which she had fed it to him—had only increased his erection. He knew the second his Mistress touched his throbbing member with the oil he would explode. Again, she could read his mind.

"I'm surely not going to touch that thing. God knows what you might do," she said. "Your Mistress is going to take a walk down to the beach for a while. You better get control of yourself and have that harness fully on and buckled before I get back. If not, you will be very, very sorry. And don't even dream of jacking off first. That is not an option. You are not to come. If you do, it may be your last time."

She unfastened his seatbelt. As she left the car she slammed the door she and said, "God I'm pissed at you, slave." She opened the door again and said, "One more thing. You sure better put the clamp on nice and tight. You need it, obviously, and I assure you that you do not want to make me have to tighten it when I get back. You would not like that."

He had no idea how much time he had, and little idea of how the device worked. But he knew he better get it on soon and that the toughest part would be getting the metal cage over his erection. The easiest way would be to release his excitement by masturbating. He was so aroused by his Mistress he wanted nothing more in the world. But he remembered her warning. As she said, that was not an option.

He gently applied a generous supply of the baby oil to lubricate his penis. Then he tried to simply settle down. How could he? All he could think of was the sensuous beauty of his Mistress. Those thoughts only intensified as he tried not to think them. Finally he gave up any hope of calming down. He took the cage, much smaller than his erection, and began to gradually work it onto his penis. It was a painful and difficult task. The head itself was larger than the opening at the base of the cage, and the cage tapered off towards its closed end. He managed to work his erection about halfway into the cage. Torture, and the job seemed harder—maybe even impossible—the rest of the way. Worse, he was dangerously close to coming.

He rested for a moment. The cage was actually wagging as his penis pulsed. He applied more oil. He pulled flaps of his penis's skin, as taught as it was, over the bars of the cage. Finally, it was almost in place, and the effort of trying to get it on had relaxed his erection just a little. He took a deep breath and yanked the cage fully into place. His swollen member bulged slightly through the openings of the cage, but it was on.

Next, the clamp. At the base of the cage were two thin leather straps with snap fasteners at their ends. Thinking of his Mistress's admonition he looped them around the base of his penis, then around his scrotum, and snapped it off as tightly has he could bear. He paused for a moment to look at his handiwork. His erection was smothered in the cage, and his balls bulged out shining from between the loops of the clamp. He carefully touched himself and noticed that the cage and clamps allowed—even caused—just enough sensation to keep him aroused, but not enough to ejaculate.

His job was nearly complete and he knew he better finish it before his Mistress got back. The point of this all was supposed to be to help conceal his erection. In its current state the bulge in his pants would be even more obvious. The device had another two straps with which he could tie his erection down, so it would point down the inside of his thighs. He completed the work and noticed that there were two rings of metal dangling at the base of the cage. He could only imagine what those were for.

For the first time he noticed passing cars and motorcycles on the road. He feared someone might stop and discover his position. He wanted dearly to pull up his underpants and shorts. But what would his Mistress want? Surely she would want to examine his work, and make sure that the clamp was tight to her satisfaction. Moreover, she had not given him permission to pull his shorts up. He figured that from now on, at least the next three days, he could not do anything without his Mistress's permission.

Fortunately the wait was not long, though it seemed so as he listened to the passing cars and imagined he heard them slowing down and pulling off to the side of the road. They didn't. His Mistress returned and opened the driver's side door.

She crouched there revealing a generous view of her beautiful thighs, almost to her crotch. He could feel his member bulging at the sides of the cage, but realized with relief that he was not likely to come while constrained so. When she started tugging at the straps, though, he wondered. Maybe he could come. This was strangely, and completely, arousing. He just hoped she would finish her examination before it came to that.

She didn't say a word as to whether he had done the job right. She just said, "Slave, pull up your shorts and take me to the resort. You're wasting my time."

He figured he had done all right after all.

III.Arriving at the Resort

His fear and excitement grew as they pulled into the resort. He had been with Mistress Wendy for little more than an hour and already he was obsessed. What might happen when they got behind closed doors?

As they checked-in he came to further realize what an extraordinary woman his Mistress was. She turned on an innocent charm and immediately won over the resort's staff. She was so cute and friendly. He kept mostly quiet, only signing in and giving the imprint from his credit card. Mistress Wendy was almost friendly to him when she remarked to the ladies at the counter what a "sweetie" her "sla.., uhh, man" was. "He's such a catch. He does everything I ask of him." "Everything," she repeated, giggling along with the girls. He had to wonder what the receptionists were thinking when she said "everything". Women were a mystery to him, and he always assumed that they could communicate beyond the comprehension of men.

Mistress Wendy informed the young bellhop that he need not bother with their luggage. Her "man", she again turned to the receptionists and smiled, " would prefer to carry the bags himself".

She lingered in the reception area as he carried her heavy bags, and his own small toilet kit, for he had brought no luggage, to the bungalow. It was a bungalow only in the sense that it was a detached unit, not part of the hotel. Actually it was two attached units, "Sundown A and Sundown B", but they had booked both. Privacy, and space if they needed it. The Sundown units were at the end of the resort grounds, perched on a point just above some rocks and the ocean below. They were well appointed like rooms in a 4-star hotel, and had sliding glass doors opening to balconies and a small swath of grass before the short drop to the ocean.

When the last bag was in the room, he paused to admire the view. The surf crashing on the rocks was melodious. He almost forgot what had brought him here. He thought what a romantic spot this was. He was jolted from his reverie.

"What are you doing, slave?", Mistress Wendy shouted as she entered the room. She slapped him hard on the buttocks, then turned him and slapped his face. "What are you doing?", she asked again.

He was a little stunned. He stammered, "I was waiting for you Mistress".

"Waiting for me by standing, and not removing your clothes? You obviously have a lot to learn. Down on your knees, dog." He didn't need any help, but she gave it by grabbing the hair at the back of his head and pulling him down.

"Look at my feet, slave. Tell me what you think of them. Are they beautiful? Are they not infinitely more important than your entire being? Would you do anything just to make sure my feet are happy? Tell me, slave."

He heard his Mistress, and had no choice but to look at her feet. Not that he needed encouraging. To him they were beautiful beyond description. He kissed her stockinged toes and muttered, "Mistress, I can hardly speak. Your feet are… they are what I live for, Mistress".

"They should be," she said, "but consider this." She slowly pulled his head so he could scan the full length of her beauty. Her ankles. Her rounded calves. Her knees—he noted a small stretch of her stockings on the bend behind her knees and was somehow further aroused. Her perfect thighs. She still wore the white sundress so as he continued his "tour" he could only imagine the perfection of her vagina and ass and navel and belly and breasts. He stared in disbelief at her throat and even the fronts of her collarbones wrapped in perfect skin. Her lips. Her nose. Now he was looking into her deep, dark eyes.

"Well? Slave, you may speak."

"I exist only for you, Mistress. You are a Goddess and I am at most a simple man. I am nothing but yours."

She slapped him across the face but not quite so hard this time, and said, "Don't you think I know that. Get out of those clothes."

No Holiday at the Beach Ch. 2



Part IV. Collared

Mistress Wendy sat down and watched him closely as he removed his polo shirt, shorts and underpants. She made him just stand there, shifting a little nervously, naked except for the chastity harness. Her long legs crossed, Mistress Wendy afforded a beautiful view of her thighs beneath her sundress, which had hiked up a bit as she lounged back in the chair.

"Down on your knees, slave," she said. "Your life as my slave has nearly begun." He noticed a special emphasis on the word "life".

He hastened to his knees. He glanced briefly in her eyes, but soon dropped his head. He knew this was expected of him. He was once again staring at her incredible feet. How could they have such a pull on him?, he wondered. He thought he might truly believe that they were more important than his whole being, and that they were what he lived for.

She reached back to her purse on the end table. The stretching motion caused her feet to rock back on the sandals' high heels. He bowed and kissed her toes. Not quite kicking him, she pulled her feet away and pushed his head back. She held his cheeks quite firmly with the soles of her shoes, and pushed the heels a bit into his throat. "I did not give you permission to kiss my toes, slave. You have to earn that pleasure," she said.

She continued the hold. Her ankles and legs framed his view. She had pulled a black leather collar from her purse and was studying it. She tugged on the four metal loops, examined the buckle, then tossed the collar to the far side of the room.

"Fetch your collar, slave dog," she ordered.

She released his head from the grip. He did not have to be told that he could not stand and walk like a man across the room. He crawled on all fours. He was surprised that his knees already ached a bit from kneeling on the bungalow's short-pile carpet, and it burned his knees as he went to retrieve the collar. He thought briefly about picking it up and carrying it, then thought better of it. He bent down, grabbed the collar in his teeth and returned to his Mistress.

She took the collar from his mouth before he could raise his head. She pushed his head to the floor with her feet, rubbing his face against the carpet. Then she again locked her feet on his cheeks and forced him into a kneeling, upright position. He was in pain, ashamed and frightened. Nevertheless he was stunned by the view of her now fully outstretched legs. From ankle to thigh, and then some. Her dress had pulled open further and he could see straight up to her heavenly crotch, with her white panties showing through the fabric of her hose. Despite his forlorn position, he imagined what wonders lied within.

Mistress Wendy placed the collar around his neck and buckled it. Next she passed her high heels through the metal loops on the right and left side, and pulled right, and left and back again, repeating the motion several times. As she did so, her heels pushed firmly into his collarbone and the sides of the soles of her shoes stung his ears. Then she placed the heel of her right shoe in the loop to the front. The heel dug into his Adam's apple, and the sole of her sandal was pressed against his face. His lips were forced apart, and he was involuntarily french kissing the sole of her sandal. She pulled him forward slightly, placed the left heel in the collar's rear loop and pulled him backward. He nearly fell, but then her right foot pulled him forward and he regained an equilibrium of sorts.

Finally she stopped the exercise and rested. Through all the pain and humiliation, he found himself almost liking the position. He concentrated especially on the sensation of his Mistress's left leg draped over his shoulder. He looked out of the side of his eyes and admired her calf as it led to her ankle, just out of view. She removed her right foot from the loop, freeing his mouth from the sole of her shoe. Her left foot still held his head in place and he really had no choice but to stare at her thighs and crotch. It was still, of course, obscured by her hose and panties, but no less enticing for that.

"Yes, look at it," Mistress Wendy said. "Think of its beauty. Think of how when you were a man, and not my mere slave, you might have had half a chance to pull down my panties and have your way like some real men do. Think of how you may come to know it and crave it, maybe even more so than you do my feet—you ridiculous dog—and then think how that will never happen. If you are lucky, at best you will see other men—real men, not slaves—make passionate love to me. But then, slave, is that luck? If it's luck, is that good luck or bad? Think about it."

She continued to hold his head with her left foot for quite some time. And he thought about it.

After a while he broke from his trance. Mistress Wendy's left foot still held his head in position, but he raised his eyes from her crotch and gazed into her face. She too seemed in a trance and did not at first notice him.

He took the chance to study her face. It was round, her cheeks just slightly high. Her nose was— there was no better word for it— cute. Smallish, kind of chubby and upturned to show a bit of her nostrils. The nose had a slight bridge, almost no bridge at all. Infinitely more attractive, he thought, than the large-bridged beaks of many Westerners. He wondered again why so many Thai women got nose jobs to emulate Europeans. His Chinese Mistress had a cute nose for the ages. Her long black hair shone in the late afternoon sunlight. He thought he noticed a few streaks of color, a deep dark red, but he could not tell for sure if it was color or the effect of the sunlight. She wore her hair straight down the sides and back, with—he didn't know what to call it—a half-bang in the front. That is, she let some of her hair fall straight down her forehead, but only some. Sort of like the teeth of a big comb, with spaces between the strands. He loved that look. His Mistress was utterly beautiful. Perhaps he was lucky, and perhaps his luck was good.

If his Mistress had been in a trance, she snapped out of it. Her eyes flashed to life. "You study my face, slave. Perhaps you think it beautiful…"

"Yes, Mistress…", he started to say, but she jerked his head back harshly with her left heel in the collar's ring.

"I was not asking a question and I did not give you permission to speak." She jerked his head back and forth, then slipped her heel out of the collar and shoved him backwards with her feet on his chest. He couldn't help but come out of his kneeling position as he fell. "Stand for a moment, slave."

He scrambled to his feet, anxious to obey and relieve the pain and stiffness from his knees. He was a little wobbly as he stood before her. Quickly Mistress Wendy removed the leather strap that had held his penis pointing downward. The still caged and clamped member sprung almost straight in the air. "Well, obviously you find something about me beautiful. If you were not a mere slave I would almost pity how miserable you will be. So unsatisfying, I imagine, being a slave."

She laughed when she said "unsatisfying", laughing at the gross understatement. The pain, the humiliation and intense yearning he was to endure was, well, rather worse than unsatisfying. She already had so much control over his mind that he, too, saw the joke in the word "unsatisfying". But it wasn't funny.

She slapped his balls, swollen in the clamp, then leaned back again and pinched them between her feet. She kicked his caged member for good measure, and ordered him back on his knees. Reaching again into her purse she removed a small padlock. She locked the collar in place and gave it a tug. She walked to the sliding windows at the balcony, went out and tossed the key over the ledge into the surf crashing below.

"Get used to it," she said as she returned.

V.Leashed

Resuming her seat, she pulled a chain metal leash out of her purse and tossed it across the room. "Get it," was all she said. And he did, crawling back with it to his Mistress just as he had done with the collar. She snapped the clasp over the metal ring in the front of his collar. She gave it a quick pull forward, as if to test its strength—or his. He fell, again prostrate at her feet. "Back up on your knees, dog," she ordered. He was frightened. She seemed suddenly fierce.

She looked at him, and into her purse, as if wondering what to do next. He was wondering what all the purse could hold. He knew it was not yet empty. Not nearly. She removed a pair of simple but beautiful white shoes. A perfect match with her sundress, just the slightest hint of beige. They were close-toed, and their heels were not quite three inches long. They were tapered, but nothing like stilettos. They were the shoes of an office lady. They appeared brand new. Their leather soles showed not even a scratch. She held the pair of shoes in front of his face for a moment, in the manner of giving a bloodhound the odor of the prey. This odor was fresh leather. She tossed one shoe into the corner of the room. Without her asking he started scrambling on his hands and knees to fetch it. As he was bending down to pick it up with his mouth he felt the hard jerk of his leash.

"Did I tell you to move, slave?", she asked, and quickly added, "Don't answer that." He knelt there, frozen as she pulled the leash taut. He heard something, the other shoe he knew, land in the other far corner of the room.

"I want you to choose, slave," she said, "which shoe do you think it would please your Mistress to wear first?"

He thought for a moment, and realized there was nothing to think about. All he could do was guess. She jerked the leash and said, "Don't waste my time."

He quickly crawled across the room to the other shoe. Again as he bent down to the shoe she jerked his head back. He almost choked.

"Wrong," she said. "Too bad for you. Very bad, I think. Slave, go get my other shoe."

So he crawled back across the room The distances would not seem far to someone not a slave, who walked upright in the room, but by now his knees were very sore. "Faster, slave," she said.

Now, at least, he was sure he had the correct shoe. His mouth was open and just closing over the heel. His head was jerked back violently by the chain. "Changed my mind," she said, "women can be so impetuous." Lost in confusion, with his knees burning, he crawled as quickly as he could to the other shoe. He was terribly frightened of yet another pull on the leash as he bent over the shoe. This time nothing happened. He used only his lips as he carried it back to his Mistress, fearing the wrath that would be caused by the slightest of tooth marks. Dragging his sore knees over the slack of the chain leash was torture. She took the shoe and told him to fetch the other one. He crossed the slack yet again and started to hate his leash. He still had great doubts as he bent to grasp the second shoe in his mouth. Again nothing happened. He was actually grateful as he returned it to his Mistress.

She took the shoe from his mouth, and replaced it with the gathered end of his chain leash. "Do you like your color and leash, slave dog?, she asked, "I do. You must answer me, but don't drop the leash."

"If it pleases you, Mistress," he mumbled as best he could while still holding the chain in his mouth.

"I couldn't hear you," she said, "louder, slave."

He quickly worked the leash as far back as he could into the corners of his lips so he could say, "I love my leash, Mistress."

"Oh, you're still incomprehensible, slave, but then who cares what you think," she said, "What you think doesn't matter, does it? Don't answer that," she added once again.

VI.Foot worship

"Slave, remove my shoes," she ordered. He still held the chain in his mouth and he knew she did not mean for him to use his hands. Again he froze, confused.

"Oh, right," Mistress Wendy said, "a slave like you can't be expected to do two things at once." She took the chain from his mouth and tossed it clanking to the floor. There was a slight tug on his collar. Just a reminder.

"Wait," she said, "my hand has done you a great favor. One you don't deserve. Kiss my hand slave. Lick and suck it like the dog you are."

He looked at her beautiful, soft hand and went at it as if he were it were the sweetest thing on earth. And to him it was. He licked her palm. The back of her hand. He sucked her long, perfect fingers. She closed her fingers into a tapered fist and he stretched his lips around them. She pushed her hand deep into his mouth, and he gagged. She held her fist there. He had trouble breathing, but after a moment he had adjusted. As she removed her hand she dragged the tops of her long fingernails across the roof of his mouth. She rubbed his face to wipe the saliva off and said nothing.

He bent to remove her sandals. They had straps that wrapped twice around the ankles and were tied at the back, high up her Achilles' tendons. Again he was mesmerized by her perfect feet. He studied the toes and their glistening nails. Admired her soft rounded heels, and the way the flesh colored hose was a lighter shade there as the fabric stretched on its way back up her lovely calf. He even admired the tight weave of the fabric.

"Slave, you are dawdling. I told you to remove my shoes," she said. Then she added, "But wait. Lie flat, slave. Worship me."

The cage on his erect penis made his effort to obey difficult. But as quickly as he could he lay down before his Mistress, shifting so his penis bent sideways and flat. The press of his own weight and his excitement made it pulse and bulge within its cage.

She was standing now.

"Open your mouth, slave," she said, "Open wide, and stick out your dog's tongue." He did so. She wedged the sole of her sandal under his tongue, twisted his head sideways, and pressed down forcefully with her toes.

"Suck my toes, slave. You don't deserve it, surely, but it amuses me."

His tongue was stretched and twisted and squeezed between the sandal's insole and her toes. He wanted to scream, but of course could not utter even a sound. He surrendered to her foot completely.

Mistress Wendy worked the sole of her sandal slightly deeper under his tongue, pressed down hard with her toes, and tugged outward.

"Love my feet slave," she said. "You love them, don't you? Answer me."

He did love them, and he yearned to tell her so. But without the use of his tongue he could not speak. He struggled mightily to do so. He could only manage a faint, muffled noise. She continued to apply the pressure between her toes and insole. Through the pain, he felt the weave of her hose's fabric, imagined the beauty of her now unseen toes, smelt the sweet and sour smell, and was immensely aroused—though helpless to tell her so.

"Tell me, slave," Mistress Wendy demanded. "Do you love my feet? I'm waiting. They're waiting. If you don't tell me you love my feet, you will never see them again, let alone lick or kiss them again. We're walking. We'll be gone. Tell my feet you love them."

He panicked. His tongue and mouth were in agony, yet Mistress Wendy's threat hit to the bottom of his being. He could not imagine life without her—without her feet Still she pressed his tongue, and he could not answer. Tears welled in his eyes. Pain. Frustration. But mostly her unbearable threat.

He had to do it. He would endure anything for her feet, and he knew without consciously thinking he would have to endure plenty for this. He took his hands from his sides and pulled her foot from its hold on his tongue. He was sobbing, blubbering, "Mistress Wendy's foot. I love you with all my heart. I need you. Worship you. Never leave me."

He was now holding her foot and smothering it in kisses. He licked his own tears from its toes and arch. His fate was cast.

Mistress Wendy had for a brief instant lost her balance as he first grabbed her foot. She wobbled a bit, then let him continue his homage. Her eyes, however, blazed.

He was softly weeping now, petting her ankle and mumbling, "I love you."

Mistress Wendy jerked her foot away violently. Without saying a word, she pulled two wide leather cuffs from her purse and quickly snapped them tightly around his wrists. He did not resist as she pulled his arms behind his back and clasped the cuffs together. Next two more cuffs, on his ankles. This time she clipped a chain, about two feet in length and of the same linked metal as his leash, into the metal rings on each cuff. She kicked his legs apart. He squirmed in pain, and tried to position his bulging penis in its metal cage into a tolerable spot beneath him. She started jabbing the backs of his shoulders with the heels of her sandals. She stood with the balls of her feet—not her heels, he thought, she has some mercy—on his lower back and bounced up and down. There was no tolerable position for his penis beneath him as she did so. She stood behind him and kicked his balls, still bulging in the clasp. She jabbed his buttocks with her heels, pried open his crack, and seemed on the verge of thrusting a heel into his anus. He flinched just slightly at that. Finally, she stopped her onslaught, and pressed his neck down to firmly to the floor with the arch between her sandal's sole and heel.

"Did I give you permission to touch my feet, you impudent slave dog? Don't answer. You are not to say a word." Saying this Mistress Wendy, resumed her seat in front of him. He lay helpless and prostrate before her, his face to the floor. She slid her right heel under his chin and lifted his face. With her left heel, she opened his mouth, prodding it almost gently. She then took both feet, and with their heels in his nostrils, she held his head slightly off the floor.

There was pain, surely, he thought, but she could be treating me much rougher. It was more his abject helplessness before her that frightened him. Like he was losing his soul.

"Slave," she said, "I believe I ordered you to remove my shoes." She pulled her heels from his nostrils and tucked her feet back under the rattan lounge chair. As quickly as he could squirmed on his belly and pushed his head under the chair. He grasped the tied leather strap of one sandal and then the other, as he unfastened her shoes. She was doing little to help him. She tucked her feet further underneath the chair and pressed them firmly against the floor. He wormed forward and grasped one heel in his teeth and gave it a gentle tug. It wouldn't budge unless she raised her foot. He nearly panicked. What would happen if he failed Mistress Wendy in her simple request? He was, again, without options. Finally she lifted her feet slightly and he was able to remove the sandals.

He looked and considered his world of the moment. His head was well under the chair, and from that confined perspective her perfect feet and her two sandals now removed loomed before him, seemingly larger than life. He could not move because Mistress Wendy had only asked that he remove her shoes. Nothing more. So he remained there contemplating the strangely erotic landscape inches before his face.

One foot disappeared from this surreal view. It returned a moment later, clad in one of the white leather pumps. Then the other. His world under the chair was Mistress Wendy's feet, pumps and the discarded sandals. Finally she said, "Get out from under the chair, slave." He wormed backwards and again lay prostrate before her.

"Roll over, slave. On your back," said Mistress Wendy.

She pressed the heels of her pumps into his nipples. Quite hard this time.



No Holiday at the Beach Ch. 3



VII. Tested

Collared, leashed, cuffed and chained, he lay on his back pinned to the floor by her heels pressing hard against his nipples. He looked up and admired again the back of her knees. They, too, were perfect. He was thinking of how the back of a woman's knee had always held a special fascination for him. Often in foreplay with a woman he loved he would plant long, wet kisses there. He wondered if he would ever have the chance of making such tender love with Mistress Wendy. He was dreaming, he knew. 

Mistress Wendy bent forward over him. The shift of her weight brought further pressure on his nipples. She was looking at him through her legs. Her long hair draped down and brushed on his caged penis. It blew softly in the sea breeze coming in through the doors opening to the balcony. His erection raged further against the constraints of the cage. 

She was smiling. A beautiful smile, but nothing cute and friendly like she had flashed at the resort's reception area. This smile was clearly for her alone. It was the smile of self-satisfaction, he thought, as she contemplated the power she had over him. The smile said she knew that this man under her feet would endure any pain or humiliation just to be in her presence. No wonder she was smiling. 

She leaned back again, lifting the heels of her white pumps only for an instant, altering the position just so that they now pinched and pulled, as opposed to pushing, his nipples. He could hear that she was sorting through her purse yet again. He heard a familiar clink of metal, and now dangling before him was another metal chain, the same as his leash and leg chains, only this one was shorter still. About ten inches. It swung back and forth like a pendulum before his eyes. At the end of the chain just before his eyes was an alligator clip with mean looking teeth. He feared he knew what was coming. 

She lifted her feet off his chest and placed them on either side of his head, the fabric on her ankles against his cheeks. Although the pinching and pulling of his nipples by her heels had been extremely painful, as soon as she removed her feet his nipples sprung erect, as if they had just been suckled. She dug her long, painted fingernails into one and then the other nipple. Again the pain, but even greater stimulation. When she placed the alligator clips on his sensitive nipples he feared he must scream. It felt like they could cut his nipples off at the base. She gave the chain a gentle tug. 

Apparently seeing the incredible pain he was in, and the effort he was making to avoid screaming, she said, "Here, take this, slave, like biting the bullet. " Laughing as she said that, she placed a length of his leash in his mouth. He knew if he bit down hard on the metal chain it would send unbearable pain through his teeth. Instead, he sucked it. He tried to lift his head slightly to look down at his chest and see how badly he was bleeding. The pain was so awful he must be bleeding, he thought, though he thought wrongly. He tried to look, but she held his head firmly between her feet. All he could see was the insides of her lovely lower calves beneath the thin layer of faintly glistening flesh-tone hose. She continued giving, what must to her have seemed, playful little tugs on the nipple chain. He was wondering if it was possible for anything to hurt worse. Mistress Wendy provided the answer. 

She stood and pulled his leg chain up and over his face, forcing him to roll with the back of his shoulders on the floor. She sat back down, straddling and pinning his legs beneath her on the rattan chair. His ass was completely exposed and vulnerable before her. She began to slap his buttocks rapidly and viciously. She used her open palms; the back of her hands. The blows fell constant; fierce and forever. 

He could do nothing. Pinned as he was he could not even flinch, let alone try to dodge the blows. His skin was pulled taut as a drum, with the nerve endings completely unprotected by flesh. He was now biting down hard on his leash. 

After a long time her pace slowed. There were irregular pauses between each slap, but their force seemed even harder still and his anxious waits between the blows only made the next all the more shockingly painful. He decided that he could stand it no more. He was about to spit out the leash and tell her that he had enough, regardless of the consequences. He was through. She was too crazy, even for him. Just then, she stopped. She stood and with the leg chain she laid his legs, gently really, back onto the floor. 

Mistress Wendy showed signs of her exertion. Her sundress was rumpled a bit, and twisted near her waste. Her face was flushed, and some of the strands of hair laying down her forehead showed perspiration. He noticed that her hands were red and somewhat swollen. 

She slipped out of her shoes. It was the first time he had seen her standing flatfooted. Still quite tall, but slightly less imposing. The lack of heels subtly changed the shape of her legs. They were no less sexy, but softer looking, more in the familiar, homey manner of a beautiful woman one has loved as mate, an equal, for a long time. She lowered herself onto his stomach, sitting, and said softly, just above a whisper, "Raise your knees, slave. "

He did so, and she leaned back against his thighs. "Your Mistress thought you might have broken there," she said. "I—uh, your Mistress—is pleased you didn't. You may enjoy my feet. "

VIII. Mistress Takes Her Pleasure

She placed the soles of her feet at his face. First he took his cheeks and cuddled against their soles. He felt a slight bit of dampness from her perspiration and enjoyed its cool sensation through her hose. He licked her soles with relish. Kissed them. Then did the same to each of her toes. He sucked on the inside of her ankle. 

As he was doing so, Mistress Wendy nudged her buttocks back until she made the slightest contact with the tip of his caged penis. She relaxed back against his thighs. He felt on his stomach more than dampness seeping through her panties and hose. That was not perspiration, not much of it anyway. He knew it was the sweet juices of her pussy. He was terrified that the savage beating his Mistress had just administered would arouse her so. But he was gratified, also. 

By now his Mistress had unbuttoned her sundress to above its waist. She had plunged her beautiful right hand beneath the waistband of her hose and panties and was masturbating. Not furiously, but with vigor. "You may watch, slave. Indeed, I order you to watch," she said, almost breathlessly. 

He looked up. Mistress Wendy had tossed her head back. Her long silken hair stoked his legs and the tops of his feet. She was rocking hard, now, as she approached orgasm. His raw buttocks burned on the carpet beneath her, but he barely noticed. He showered her feet with kisses, pausing only to enjoy the spectacular view of his Mistress as her excitement increased. There was a fever to it all. He could not get enough of his Mistress's lovely feet and the view of her stroking her crotch, and was sometimes unable to decide where to turn his attention; she was bouncing and stoking herself in spasms as she approached a violent orgasm. 

She came with a shudder, and the deepest sigh he had ever heard. She collapsed back against his thighs. After several moments, she playfully rubbed the sole of her right foot on his face, and tugged a little with her toes at his nostrils. She let her foot linger over his lips, then got up slowly, slipped her foot under his nipple chain and gave it the slightest of tugs, and walked off to the bathroom. 

Only then did he realize that his throbbing member was nearly bursting from its cage. He knew that, despite the clamp, all he had to do was touch himself on the scrotum and he would come in the most explosive orgasm he had ever experienced. But his hands were cuffed together under his back. He watched helplessly as his penis bobbed in its cage. He realized again the incredible burning of his buttocks on the rug, and the sharp pain of the clips in his swollen nipples. He tried to forget all that, and think of his Mistress. 

IX. Playing in the Yard

After a time, he was not sure how long—he had no idea how long, though in fact it was not long at all—his Mistress called from the bathroom. 

"Slave, you left my sandals under the chair. Fetch them, now. "

He rolled onto his stomach, and wormed again under the chair. The great relief of getting off his buttocks was more than surpassed by the pain as again his weight was pressed against the alligator clips in his nipples. Especially so as he necessarily pulled his nipples against their chain, which was likewise held by the weight of his chest. Along with the pain he should have felt humiliation, he knew. However, he was actually disappointed that his Mistress was not in the room to see another example of his devotion. He took it as a test of his obedience, that he would obey her even without her watching, and he inched under the chair. 

Mistress Wendy had returned to the room by the time he had finished his task. She had removed her panty hose and was barefoot. For the first time he could see the skin of her legs. Her legs were smooth and fair skinned. Not pale, of course, but nearly white. In one hand she held yet another length of chain, about the same length as his leg chain. Her other hand was closed. She shook it lightly and he heard the sound of muffled bells. 

She set the chain on the chair. She opened her hand to reveal brass bells. Four were rather small, one quite a bit larger. The smaller bells had short fasteners attached; the larger had a three-inch length of chain at the end of which was an alligator clip. She placed all the bells on the chair and examined her slave. Without a word Mistress Wendy pulled him up by the hair to a kneeling position. She began fastening the small bells to his nipple chain. The weight of the four bells together pulled down on the chain, stretching his erect nipples even further. He couldn't conceal a wince as she gave the bells a little jingle. 

Mistress Wendy then unfastened his wrists from behind his back. With all the other pain and stimulation he was suffering, he had scarcely noticed how stiff and pained his arms and the back of his shoulders had been. He was not, he figured, permitted to stretch. Indeed, he kept his hand behind his back until his Mistress pulled them forward and fastened the chain to the cuffs. 

"On your hands and feet," she ordered. At first he was a little confused. Then he leaned forward on his hands, and pushing up raised his knees from the floor. The bells on his nipple chain jingled. "I want to watch the sunset," she said, "I'll take you for a walk. "

He started forward and she said, "Not yet. " He had naturally been standing tiptoed and she ordered him to push his heels to the floor. The position stretched his calves and hamstrings painfully, and left his buttocks once again completely vulnerable. She pinched his swollen cheeks, then took the larger bell from the chair and clipped it to his scrotum. He was surprised that this didn't hurt more than it did, or perhaps he just could not tell anymore. He felt the weight of the bell. It rang and bounced against his inner thighs. 

"Ready," she said. 

She gathered a bit of his leash in her hand and pulled him through the doors to the balcony. The collar pulled at his neck. Trying to crawl chained and flat-footed, with his heels to the floor, was awkward and the progress too slow for his Mistress. She tossed the leash over the rail of the balcony and returned to the room for her sandals. Grabbing one by the heel, she slapped hard against his ass three times. She did not have to say anything; he knew the meaning and vowed to himself to move faster. She hoisted herself over the railing of the balcony into the small yard above the crashing surf. The sunset was just entering its full glory, but he had no time to contemplate it. As she pulled on his leash he managed to scramble over the railing and fell to the ground below. 

He resumed his position on his hands and feet. Mistress Wendy seemed hardly to notice. She leaned idly back against the rail and watched the sunset. "The sunset at the beach, slave, is one of the most beautiful sights in nature. Show me slave, which you prefer. What would you rather look at? A beach sunset, or a peek at my feet. You may choose", she said, but he knew he had no choice. 

He did not hesitate. He turned and stared intently at her feet. They were to him more lovely than any sunset. The ankles. Heels. Toes. Arches. Even the barely dark and barely rough soles of her feet, the edges of which he could glimpse under her arches, were to him perfection. He caught the glimmer of the setting sun reflecting off the beautiful polish on her nails. He yearned to bend down and shower her feet with his kisses, but he had not been given permission. He could look but could not touch. 

The sunset was nearing its last glory. Still watching the horizon, Mistress Wendy grabbed a sandal and tossed it to the far side of the yard near the edge above the rocks. "Fetch, slave," she said. 

He crawled on hands and feet to the sandal, and scooped it between his teeth, scampering back. The bells on his nipple chain and scrotum rang. "Faster," she said, and swatted him on his buttocks with the other sandal. He shivered with pain, and again there was the sound of the bells. This game continued for some time. Occasionally she would yank his leash just as he reached the sandal and say "get it, slave". He would pull against the leash, almost choking, until she released the tension. When she did, he would nearly lose his balance and plant his face in the ground. His efforts were never fast enough to please his Mistress, and each time he returned he received another painful spanking with the other sandal. 

He had heard the talk and laughter of two couples at the bungalows adjacent to the Sundown units. They, too, were out enjoying the sunset, he knew. Surely they would be able to hear the strange sounds. He tried to hear what they were saying, what provoked their laughter, but could not. By now, the sun had set. Dusk's gloaming between day and night had arrived. 

Mistress Wendy tossed the sandal a long way, into the yard of the Sundown's neighbors. "Fetch," she said. He froze for a moment, contemplating the consequences. What about the rules?, he wondered. She could not mean for him to do this. "Fetch," she said again, and landed the hardest blow she had yet inflicted with the sandal. He fought back a scream. The bells jingling, to him a thunderous sound, he crawled after the sandal. 

He reached the edge of the Sundown units' yard. He was, he hoped, still out of view of the neighbors. He thought about trying to sneak into the yard to retrieve the sandal, but he doubted it was possible, even without the telltale jingling of his bells. He remained there. Frozen. He did not know what to do. Like a well-trained dog that would not leave the arbitrary confines of his yard. 

He felt a violent jerk on his chain. He fell, and scrambled back to his hands and feet. "Get back here," his Mistress called. He had no idea what punishment awaited him. He jingled back to his Mistress, fearing the worst. As always, she surprised him. 

She grasped his hair on either side of his head and stared straight into his soul. She held him there for a moment, and finally said, "You are right. Slaves must follow the rules. "

He was so relieved that he hardly cared that Mistress Wendy had placed such emphasis on the word "slaves", to the obvious exclusion of Mistresses. 

"You may lick my, feet," she said. And he did. With unabashed relish.



No Holiday at the Beach Ch. 4



X. Not his finest moment

He was, he realized, completely in the thrall of his Mistress. Or almost so. He still wondered about her willingness to adhere to the rules. He worried most about the possibility of her going public, demonstrating her slave to the world at large. He wondered what he would choose if she gave him the choice; he shuddered at the thought of how he might likely have no choice. Still, in the privacy of the room with his Mistress, he figured he could endure anything—any suffering or humiliation. 

They had returned to the room. His Mistress was again seated in the rattan chair. She used his back as a footrest. Idly she would place her toes at his lips and let him suck them. She sometimes flicked the bell chain on his nipples, or squeezed his raw buttocks with her toes. 

"I'll have to go out and eat soon," Mistress Wendy said. "You're not coming. " Although the thought of his being apart from his Mistress troubled him, he was rather relieved that he would remain safely in the room, away from the risk of exposure to the outside world. She said, "I'm just not sure what to do with you. You're a nuisance. "

She walked to the bed and yanked back the cover and top sheet. She ruffled the pillows. He was thinking that his Mistress might indeed be kind to him, and let him rest in the comfort of the bed. He thought how nice it would be to lie on a soft mattress. On his side, keeping the weight off his aching buttocks, nipples and knees. She yanked his leash and led him to the bathroom. 

She ordered him to stand. She unfastened one end of the chain between his wrists and ran it through the metal loop on the front of his collar. The same loop that the leash was attached to. This forced him to raise his arms somewhat, with about ten inches of play for each arm. Wasting little time, Mistress Wendy unfastened and jerked the cage from his still erect penis, pulling hard and stretching the skin trapped between the bars of the cage. She took his smarting and swollen penis and played with it briefly. Very briefly, almost to his relief. He feared he would explode all over his Mistress and he hated to think of the consequences. 

She left the room and returned with a leather band. With it, she tied his penis down the inside of his right thigh. "On your hands and knees, slave," she said. 

With the wrist chain running through his collar, he was forced to keep his face rather close to the bathroom floor. She wrapped the leash around the pipe behind the toilet, with about five feet of slack to spare, and clicked a padlock between the links of the chain. "Pee for me," was all she said, and she backed under the bathroom doorway. 

He had no idea what to do. His bladder was, indeed, quite full, having not been relieved since the airport. Clearly, he was not supposed to try to stand up and use the toilet. There was a drain in the corner of the bathroom. He considered its location. How could he position himself and manage, with his penis strapped to his thigh, to relieve himself with any sense of dignity? He realized that he had no dignity. Whatever dignity he had, even while chasing his Mistress's sandal in the backyard was being stripped from him. "Pee for me, and look me in the eyes as you do it," she said. "Hurry up. "

He maneuvered with his buttocks toward the corner with the drain. Tears welled in his eyes as he looked up at his Mistress. He thought of beseeching her to leave the room. She was smiling, almost laughing, but still maintained a stern edge in her glare—and voice. "Pee," she said. 

His penis was still erect within its strap on his thigh. He felt a few little hot spurts of urine spray and splash onto the tile beneath him. Finally, a slow warm stream ran down his thigh, trickling from his knee, forming a puddle that began a slow course toward the drain in the corner. "That's a good dog," she said, laughing soundly now. "I thought I would have to take you for a walk. Maybe you can be trained after all. Roll over. "

"No, please…" His plea came out involuntarily. He knew better immediately, but it was too late. His Mistress calmly said, "I did not ask you to speak. "

She he left the room and returned with a ball gag. She forced his mouth open and pushed the ball well inside. It stretched his lips and hurt his jaw. He groped with his mouth trying to find a comfortable position around the ball, intermittently biting down and sucking. Within a moment he was drooling from his efforts. It dribbled out of the air holes in the ball, and dripped to the floor mingling with the urine. "That should keep you quiet," she said. "I'm getting ready for dinner. By the way, I thought I told you to roll over. "

She remained and watched as awkwardly he lowered his side into the puddle of urine and rolled over onto his back. Chained, his arms and hands—paws, he thought—were raised like those of a prone dog whose belly was being scratched. She ordered him to lift his legs. In doing so, his back was pressed even more firmly against the urine soaked tiles. Much worse was his knowledge of how utterly ridiculous he must look. The sorriest man alive. 

He did not have long to imagine how he looked. His Mistress positioned the mirror on the bathroom door so his reflection came straight back to him. She pulled the slack on the leash and he was forced to look at himself. He sobbed slightly behind the ball gag. 

"But I almost forgot about your dinner," Mistress Wendy said. She left the room and after a short while returned with a stainless steel bowl. She held the bowl before his face. In it she had mixed a gruel of milk and bread. Two eggs, the yolks unbroken, floated on top. 

She placed it on the floor a short distance away from him in front of the mirror. She washed off the gruel that remained on her hands in the sink. She removed his gag and said, "You must be famished. Eat, slave. " He knew better than to hesitate. He crawled to the bowl but discovered that the leash held him about six inches short of the bowl. "Beg, slave. "

He looked into his Mistress's eyes. His own eyes were pleading, but not pleading to be allowed to eat, surely. Still, he said, "Please, Mistress, you have been so kind—almost too kind—to make me dinner. I know I don't deserve it, but please Mistress, let me eat. " She slid the bowl with her foot a few inches closer to him. 

"You would allow me to do anything to you, as payment for this dinner. Correct, slave?", she asked rhetorically. "Anything, my Mistress, I am yours as you please. "

She slid the bowl under his chin. With his hands on either side of the bowl, he slowly lowered his chin and mouth into the gruel and began slurping his dinner. His Mistress kept laughing and remarking what a messy slave dog he was. Sometimes, to prove her point, she would pull his head from the bowl with his leash and make him look at himself in the mirror. The sticky gruel was smeared over the lower half of his face, and strings of it hung down toward the bowl. She ordered him to lick the sides of the bowl, but some of the gruel remained when she said, "Enough slave, you may wish a snack later on. "

Mistress Wendy left the room and returned a few minutes later with another bowl. "Can't forget your water, slave," she said. She held the bowl before him. From its smell he knew before looking that it contained his Mistress's urine. She placed the bowl where she had first placed the food bowl before the mirror. Without her ordering, he begged. "Mistress, you have been so kind to provide me with liquid refreshment. The sweetest elixir on earth. I don't deserve it but please, Mistress, I beg you to let me drink. "

"Right," she said, and slid the bowl under his chin. The urine was still warm as he lowered his face into the bowl. The stench was quite sour, but the taste, though bland, was remarkably pleasing. He realized he was not acting as he lapped at the urine with relish. He licked the bowl dry. 

Mistress Wendy said, "Good, slave dog. " She left the room and returned to pour a bottle of beer from the mini-bar into the bowl. "I might be late and you might need something," she said. "You could use a toy, too," she added. She grabbed her pantyhose and panties from the towel rack, where they had been hung earlier. They were still damp and fragrant from her afternoon's arousal. She tied them in a knot, fashioning a sort of toy bone. Before placing it in his mouth she sprayed the mixture of gruel and urine from his face with the hose next to the toilet. 

She left the bathroom. He heard her open the door that linked Sundown A and Sundown B. She returned to the threshold of the bathroom door sometime later. She was gorgeous. Stunning. She wore a turquoise leather miniskirt, with matching pumps, and a black cotton pullover top. Her fingers, wrists, ears, left ankle and neck glittered with silver and turquoise jewelry. She had a silver and turquoise band on her right biceps. She had tied two small braids in her hair on either side of her head. Through the braids she had woven thin strips of turquoise leather. Her make-up was dazzling. Not garish, but quite a bit of color and glitter nonetheless. Completing the effect, she wore black stockings, with a slight metallic sheen, like her flesh colored pantyhose, which he now held in his mouth. 

He dropped the toy from his mouth and asked, "May I speak, Mistress, I beg you. " It was a huge risk; for all he knew she might cut his tongue out for this transgression. But he had to do it. She flashed him a momentary angry glare, but then laughed and said, "If you must, slave. "

Immensely relieved, he gushed, "Mistress, I just had to say that you are the most beautiful woman on earth. A Goddess. I…", he stammered here, "I am proud to be your slave. "

"So," she said, "I look alright, do I. Maybe I can pick up a real man tonight. It's so romantic here. You better not close the bathroom door," she seemed to add as an afterthought. "You might need the air. "

She was heading out the door when he heard her stop. She returned to the bathroom and held before him the card from the doorknob that read "Please Make Up the Room". She said, "The room's a mess, and you're in no position to clean it. "

He was shocked and feared he might protest but before he even had the chance, Mistress Wendy playfully forced his toy into his mouth and left. He was terrified when he heard the door close. What could he do?

Outside Sundown A, Mistress Wendy turned the card over and hung it on the doorknob. "Do Not Disturb". 

XI. Distressed

His mind was racing as he heard the door close shut. His Mistress's occasionally cruel treatment, and several remarks suggesting that the rules did not apply to her, left no doubt in his mind that she would indeed have the maids come to clean the room. What could he do?

His first thought, based on instinct and surely not rational, was to try to hide. He crawled toward the back of the toilet before realizing how ridiculous a notion that was. He next crawled to the edge of the bathtub. Could he, he wondered, crawl into the tub and pull the curtain shut? He was sufficiently desperate to actually pause and consider this notion. He might, he feared, choke on the leash, even if he could stretch that far, which he doubted. And he would scarcely be concealed. A hotel bathroom leaves few options for hiding. Finally, he decided the best he could do was to pull down a towel and at least cover himself. He tried frantically to reach for a towel, but the leash would not permit it. Not even close, really, but he tried for some time, feeling the skin on his neck grow a little raw from the efforts. It was no use. 

Strangely, he never even considered trying to close and lock the bathroom door. Under the restraint of the leash, doing so might not have been easy. But surely possible. Had he thought about it, he would have realized that his Mistress had ordered him not to close the door, so he could not consider it an option. But he did not even think about it, such was the power she was exercising over him. 

Instead, he lay down on his side in the slowly drying puddle of urine. He contemplated himself in the mirror and wondered what he would do when the maid arrived. What would she do, he also wondered? How would a maid react to finding a man in his absurd position? Based on their reaction, how should he respond?

His mind churned over the possible scenarios. The maid might panic, and call the boss. If so, would his best chance be to say he was the victim of a crime? Maybe the maid would immediately size up the situation and take advantage. Call her friends and make fun of him. Abuse him. He shuddered at the thought of the gardeners and bellboys. Take photos. Extort him. In his near madness, sometimes he would consider the possibility of the maid being exotic in the mold of his Mistress. A beautiful maid, who would seize the opportunity to let a hotel guest do her dirty work while she enjoyed the spoils. When he thought about this, his cock would stiffen against the leather restraint on his thigh. Occasionally he would calm down somewhat, and think that maybe this was not all that unusual for a resort. Maids must see and learn of some awfully strange things in their calling. Maybe she would just look in the bathroom and think, "another one of those". Regardless, he thought, if he had the chance he had to offer her a plenty big tip. But it would have to be on credit; he was pretty sure his Mistress had his wallet. 

Infrequently, his crazed reverie was broken by the noise of people approaching on the footpath. Sometimes it sounded like guests; sometimes like staff. He knew the Sundown rooms were at the end of the premises. He sighed with relief whenever the sounds stopped before reaching those units. One time his heart pounded, for the footsteps sounded right outside the unit's door. There was a pause, and then the footsteps fell away. A guard, he figured, correctly. 

So he lay there and thought. As time passed, he pulled more and more into a fetal position on the bathroom tiles. He was growing a little numb. Not from cold, but from exposure of a different sort. Sometimes he drew himself up onto his knees and crawled to the bowls. He enjoyed the beer, and, hungry, even finished off the bowl of gruel. Back in the fetal position, he took the pantyhose toy in his mouth and sucked on it. Slowly, or so he thought, for he had met Mistress Wendy less than twelve hours ago, he was getting a little accustomed to being a worthless slave. Something not quite human. No rights. No rules. A mere object, available for the whim and whimsy of his Mistress. 

Finally, he even dozed off. He awoke, and his bladder was again full. For a moment he thought of trying to hold it in, but decided that at this point it no longer mattered. He had enough pain to deal with. Relieving himself was almost a pleasure. He simply let his bladder release its load. He felt the wetness on his inner thigh, and the warm puddle again forming around him. He hardly cared. 

He had no idea how long he had been lying there. He simply waited, in hope for his Mistress and in desperation for the maid. 

To be continued...



No Holiday at the Beach Ch. 5



XII. Mistress returns

The sound of voices stirred him from his partial slumber. It was Mistress Wendy, he noted immediately, with relief. Not a maid. But there were other voices. They sounded like those of the couple in the units adjacent to the Sundown units.

"No, kidding, he does that?" he thought he heard from a female voice, not his Mistress's. "Well, I'm game," he heard from a male voice. "If you girls want to have some fun, I'll gladly help out."

He shuddered. What was this all about?, he wondered. Was he hearing correctly? He again, briefly, tried to think of a place of refuge in the bathroom.

"Oh, but not tonight," his Mistress said. "I'll see you tomorrow."

The tension which had suddenly seized his body released. He sighed and wondered what posture he should take as his Mistress entered the room. He rose from his position on his side and waited on his hands and knees. He saw himself in the mirror. He looked nothing so much as an anxious dog awaiting the return of his master. It was in his posture, and especially the look in his eyes. Mistress Wendy was now standing under the bathroom doorway.

"So, did you miss your Mistress, slave?" she asked. "You don't have to answer. I can see that you did."

He could tell that Mistress Wendy had had a few drinks with dinner. She was not drunk, surely. Rather, she was merely a little flushed. She seemed just slightly wilder. Under other circumstances he might have found her even more desirable than ever. Indeed she was. But under these circumstances he felt even more threatened, too.

Mistress Wendy kicked her shoes off just outside the bathroom. She braced herself in the doorway and rather gently moved her right foot on his face. He breathed deeply and relished the caresses. She pressed her foot in his mouth and he sucked gently on her black-stockinged toes. He had missed her terribly. He had missed her feet.

"Slave," she said. "I see you have made a mess of your pen. I guess the maid didn't come after all. Not yet, anyway. Thank god there's another bathroom."

She removed her foot from his mouth and added, "You're a mess, too. You shall clean yourself up." With this, she reached in her purse and unlocked the leash from the pipe on the back of the toilet. She proceeded to remove the rest of his restraints. All except his collar. He remembered she had discarded the key to its lock.

"Clean yourself up," she repeated. "I have a wonderful surprise for you." She left him, and he could hear her pass through the door that connected the two units.

He was stiff and sore as he stood up and climbed into the tub that was an unreachable refuge before. He drew the water quite warm, then stood beneath the showerhead. He worried somewhat about the effect of the water on his leather collar—didn't wet leather shrink?, he wondered— and the warm water stung his welts terribly. Still perhaps never in his life had a shower felt so good. He gingerly soaped himself, feeling both liberated—if only momentarily— yet doing the bidding of his Mistress. He could feel his stiff muscles loosening. He did not reflect, to his later regret, how the warm water was softening, tenderizing, his skin.

He wondered what surprise his Mistress might have in store. We worried a bit that it might involve the neighbors, but hadn't she said "but not tonight…" He hoped whatever that was about would at least wait until tomorrow. So what might she have in mind?

"Slave," he heard her voice through the steam of the bathroom. It sounded gentle, almost affectionate. "Slave, I'll give you one minute to get out here," she said.

He snapped off the water and dried himself. The crisp starchy hotel towel stung his sores badly. He started out the bathroom door and suddenly remembered himself. He dropped to his hands and knees. He crawled out to the bedroom without lifting his head. "Rise, slave," she said, "look around you."

He stood and was amazed at the changes to the room. A globe light hanging from a hook in the ceiling had been removed. In its place was a spreader bar, hung upon the hook. The shackles on the spreader glistened, for the room was brightly lit with floodlights. Another spreader bar lay on the floor. On the bed were a French maid's outfit, white stockings, and black patent leather shoes with long heels. Also, a large black leather strap-on dildo. In the corner of the room was a tripod with a video camera. He noted it was already filming and he wondered briefly how the astonished expression on his face would look on film.

It would be quite astonished indeed, he knew, for most astonishing of all was his Mistress. She stood in the glare of the light wearing a black leather collar, wrist and ankle cuffs, halter top with her luscious nipples just the size of ten baht pieces exposed, and garter bottom showing her perfect, down-haired pubis. All of the leather was studded, and small shining chains dangled from the halter-top and garter belt. She wore sheer black stockings, and black, toe-less shoes with four-inch heels. He could not discern, really, whether the effect was one of dominance or slavery. She held a rather heavy leather strap. The rich odor of leather was strong in the room.

"It must be the ocean," she said. "It's so romantic. A man and woman making love. One way or another, this setting demands it." She held the leather strap out before him and said, "I'm going to give you a choice."

XIII. Fair test?

Mistress Wendy walked over and switched the video camera off. The room was quiet, but for the sound of the waves on the rocks below. Near enough to be heard easily through the closed windows. She walked to the windows and drew back the curtain a bit with her hand. She stood there for a few minutes. He stood beneath the spreader bar, afraid to speak and afraid to stare. He did, however, carefully keep his eyes on his Mistress.

"I have a confession to make," she said finally. Her voice was soft and tender, and lacked her previous confidence. As if she was not sure what to say. "I'm lonely. I really do wish I had a real man here with me." She emphasized "do", not "real", as he might have expected.

"I don't know. Maybe it's this lovely spot. The view. The sound. The ocean," she went on. "But I think it's more. I'm sure it's more. And when I say a "real man", I don't mean some stud who just wants to screw me hard. I mean someone sweet and tender, to care for me and for me to care for. Like a real relationship."

Mistress Wendy sounded more like just plain Wendy right now. He loved her all the more for it. He wanted to walk to the window and hold her, but he was confused. He had no idea where this was going. He stood still listening.

"You. I've been thinking about you," she said. "You might be pretty special. I know you are gentle, devoted, honest and sincere. You're pretty good looking, too," she said, then laughed softly, adding, "I suppose I shouldn't say that but I did. As for sex, well I know you're not impotent." She laughed again.

She now walked back and stood before him. She looked him in the eyes, tenderly it seemed, and said, "Maybe we could, well, kind of forget about all of this stuff."

He was astounded at what he was hearing. He thought he should grab her and scream "Of course, I love you a thousand times over." He said nothing and remained standing still.

"We could sleep together tonight. Sleep in tomorrow. I think you've had a long day," again she laughed softly. "Tomorrow walk the beach, holding hands. I would love that. I've never done that, not with a man I really cared for. Then we could have brunch together. I imagine you reading the paper, then. I would read my book. Like a real couple. After that we could come back here…" She went on. She was now almost rambling. Rather, she was just talking to herself. Speaking of how she imagined things could be. "A candle lit dinner at the beach together tomorrow evening." She even knew what food she would order.

She again looked him in the eyes. Maybe even lovingly, he thought. "I long for you to hold me," she finally said, but even as she did so she was fastening one of his wrists, then the other, to the shackles on the hanging spreader bar. Oh how he longed to hold her, too, but obviously that would have to wait.

"I want to take a bath with you. Help heal those sores." With this, she very gently kissed his aching nipples, then dropped to her knees behind him and lightly blew on the welts on his buttocks. As she did so, she shackled his ankles to the spreader bar on the floor. His arms and legs were stretched tight, as he formed a rigid "X" from the hanging bar. What was going on, he wondered.

"I want to massage your aching muscles, and you mine," she added, "You know this isn't easy on me. I'm a little sore myself."

She was now standing in front of him again. He had still not said a word. And he wouldn't, nor for a while yet, because she now placed a ball gag in his mouth and snapped the strap behind his head.

"It could all be so wonderful," she said. "I want it. I want you." She was stroking his hair. He was wild with desire and confusion. His eyes darted, pleading that it could be so.

"But, I have a problem," she said. "As I say, you're a pretty good-looking guy. I have no doubt that you would be perfect for me. Your affection, your—well—your attention," she said, very gently squeezing his balls, "your kindness. "But," she said again, with emphasis, "this problem. I just can't shake this image of your squirming around the floor chasing after my shoes. Crawling around in the yard with a cow-bell on your sack, for goodness sakes. And in the bathroom…" she grimaced. "I don't know if I can forget all that. I fear you have lost your dignity."

She waited a bit and continued, "It's both of our problems, I think. I wonder how you could look me in the eyes with the sort of mutual respect and affection I need. You, too, must remember this day. How can it be forgotten?, I have wondered."

"Well, I've thought a lot about it. Somehow we must purge this from our memories. You must prove your dignity and worthiness of mutual respect and love. I have had an idea. I don't want to, believe me, but I am going to start beating you. If you are the man for me, you can take it, I know. It won't be easy. It can't be easy, we have a lot to forget."

She had now taken the leather strap in her hand again, and was lightly slapping her palm. The strap was about two inches wide, heavy and stiff, but with some play. Rather like a new belt.

"I have a number in my head. I am going to start hitting you and if you don't beg me to stop before I reach that number you will have proven yourself worthy of me. In both our eyes. I will take you down from that ridiculous bar and the first thing I will do—after I kiss you in appreciation, and that will take quite a while—is take care of your welts. That won't be easy, but I have some special Chinese balm. It works wonders, really. You'll be better in no time, and I won't stop taking care of you until you are. Then we'll, well you know," she said. "Oh, I hope so much you will do this for me."

She paused, then continued, "But, if you can't take it. You can beg me to stop at any time," she was again Mistress Wendy in full force. "All you have to do to get me to stop is to beg, and admit what a worthless slut you are. Beg me to stop. Beg me to allow you the honor to dress as my little French maid and be fucked in the ass with my strap-ons. We will have decided what both of us really want. Think about it." Then, finally, Wendy again, she said, "Please don't let me down. I want you."

With that, she returned to the video camera and clicked it on.

She stood before him again and said, "Think about it." And so he did. He was madly in love. He knew he could endure anything for Wendy. To purge this day and start a weekend—a life?—of total bliss. The scenes imagined and related by Wendy had mingled with his own. In fact, his imagination had run amuck. Perfect love. Mutual support and caring. What a perfect husband he would be, taking care of his princess's every wish while pregnant. And their children? Perfect. But mostly he thought about the rest of the weekend. The balm treatment. The hugs. The walks. The intimate dinners. Nothing could stop him.

Whack. A sharp blow on the back of his calves. He would have crumpled right then, but he was held in place by the shackles. Whack. The back of his thighs. Whack. Whack. Twice on the buttocks. He had never felt such pain, and so suddenly. Whack. Whack. His upper, then lower, back. Whack. Again on the buttocks. He was dizzy with pain and she moved to his front. Whack. A slightly sideways shot, singling out his right nipple. Whack. His left nipple. Whack. Both nipples at once. Again on the buttocks and the back of the calves. Then suddenly, straight up from behind, the edge of the strap flush against his scrotum. The pain raced up his gut and he screamed into the ball gag. The ball gag did its job, silencing his scream.

Mistress Wendy stopped the onslaught as suddenly as it had begun. He would have been doubled over on the floor, but for the shackles. As it was, he slumped as much as the shackles allowed, writhing against the restraints in utter torment.

Mistress Wendy removed the gag from his mouth. "I thought a little warm-up would help us both, " she said. "I want you to get through this. Don't worry. It was warm-ups, but those count."

Regretfully, he was beginning to doubt his Mistress's sincerity. But still he vowed to himself to hang on.

XIV. No

After a pause, the blows came again. Fast, furious and everywhere. He had no time to anticipate the next strike. And his best guess would likely have been wrong. He couldn't even flinch, as if that might have helped. Mistress Wendy, like a fury dancing around him, lashed him from behind, both sides and the front, in no seeming order. Hardly any exposed area, and everything was exposed from heel to chin, escaped the sting—and worse—of the strap. He wondered how Mistress Wendy could even keep count, if in fact she was counting. His resolve was fading fast. Tears flowed from his eyes almost as fast as the lashes from the strap struck his body.

After an especially strong shower of blows, she finally said, it was simply Wendy's voice, "You can do it, I know you can! Please!" 

By now he doubted these words of encouragement, but still they buoyed his spirits. Every cell in his body was screaming, "Stop. God please stop this." But he still said not a word. She had, of course, stuck some more blows to his scrotum and the cramping pain was rising in his stomach. His legs pulled wildly at the spreader bar, as his body instinctively sought the small comfort of doubling over. The spreader bar, fixed as it was to a table, had no give. His arms were pulling down with full force and the same vain results, striving for the semblance of relief from the pain roiling in his stomach. The resulting tension and stretching of his flesh only heightened the flaming sting when she struck his legs, buttocks, back or belly. He was on the verge of passing out, he thought, and hoped dearly that he would. Failing that, he now realized, he would have to beg her to stop.

Her pace slowed. Dramatically. Perhaps Mistress Wendy had tired. How couldn't she? But the blows, though much less frequent, were if anything increasing in their strength. Whack. On his buttocks. Whack. On his thighs. Whack. On his buttocks yet again, then his chest and belly. After the brutally fast beating, and the overwhelming pain it had caused, these random strikes without rhythm were somehow even worse. When would it end? He knew, he was now thinking, one way to end it. His now almost unimaginable thoughts of being Wendy's lover were so strong they had carried him this far. But he could barely focus on them. The pain—the maddening wish to stop it— had subsumed all other thoughts.

There was, it seemed, though he could scarcely tell, a longer pause than before. Much longer. Had he made it? Whoosh, he heard, and the slap across his buttocks. Not hard, at least not nearly as hard as some, but still he heard himself scream, "Stop. My Goddess, I beg you."

"You shit," said Wendy as she slapped him twice on the buttocks with her open hand.

"But… but… but, please Wendy…" Thwack with the strap.

"I love you—want you—madly… As a man. I want…" His stammering was stopped by a strong blow across the buttocks. She did not say a word.

"I… I …" Another harsh strike. He was whimpering. "I love you…" Thwack again.

"I want you…" Thwack. Despite the continuing pain, his fading visions of a real relationship with Wendy kept him blubbering about his passion for Wendy. But his words were punctuated by the blows from the strap. Still she said nothing. Finally his visions of love died like the setting sun so much earlier in this strange evening. He could take no more.

He could scarcely remember the "safeword", if that is what one could call it. But finally he said, almost in a whisper, "Please Mistress, stop. I am a worthless slut. I long for you to fuck me."

Finally the blows stopped and she spoke. She held his chin up by the strap. "And?"

And what?, he wondered. She swatted him again, though not hard, and grabbing his hair twisted his head towards the bed. He saw his new attire.

"And allow me the honor to dress as your little French maid," he said, almost in a whisper.

"Louder!" Mistress Wendy shouted. "Say it."

He had truly abandoned his soul. "I am your little French maid whore and I beg you to fuck me," he, too, was almost shouting. "I am nothing but your whore. Your toy. Your slave. Nothing more." His voiced softened only a little. "It's all I will ever be," he said. "I am not worthy of the attention you give me. But I crave it, with my life."

"I thought so," Mistress Wendy said. "I must have been crazy to have ever considered otherwise." A pause. You have endured much, I must say. You may worship my feet." As she said this, she was releasing his wrists from their shackles.

"But first, kiss, worship, give thanks, to the hands that revealed your true wants." With this, this placed her right hand before him. He kissed and licked her hand, and sucked on each finger.

"Thank you," he said, and dropped to his knees to worship her feet. He rimmed the strap on her shoe, above her ankle, giving it a gentle tug like a puppy. He sucked her ankles and heels. He licked her arches, smothering his face against the top of her foot and relishing the feel and soft odor of her stockings against his upper lip and nose. Of course he did not neglect her toes.

She said, "At least everything is clear now. We know what you are. What you want. What you deserve. You're a whore and a glutton for.." She paused. "… for anything that I say. I want you to give my heel a blow job. A nice, sensuous blow job." With that Mistress Wendy lifted her right foot. "A really good one."

He did not even hesitate. First he cupped her heel in his hands and blew gently on the shining four-inch heel. Then he ran his tongue the length of the shaft several times, occasionally flicking the tip of the heel. He even spent some time blowing and licking at the base of the heel, where it met the sole, as if he imagined it were the base of a scrotum. Finally he began sucking on the heel. He could not quite deep throat this thin, rigid heel, but he nearly did, as his Mistress began rhythmically pumping her foot. She even sighed a bit as she did so. In his confused state, he thought he might be able to make her—or her shoe—come.

Eventually, she stepped back, pulling her foot away. She now stood behind him. She pushed his ass forward. His ankles, he realized, were still attached to the spreader bar. She pressed his crack open with the sole of her foot, stabbed his scrotum with the heel and then edged the tip into his anus. He could feel it wet with his own saliva. She pushed the heel in just slightly and he trembled. He feared the thin, almost sharp heel, might tear him apart. She left her foot there, barely penetrating, as his body trembled. The trembling, born of fear, had the appearance of desire.




No Holiday at the Beach Ch. 5



"Of course, that little male cunt of yours is dying to get fucked. You told me so," she said, "but you are not yet dressed the part." Saying this she removed her shoe from its threatening position, jabbed each tender buttocks several times, and then released his ankles from the spreader bar. "Get dressed," she said, "we're both horny."

To be continued...



No Holiday at the Beach Ch. 6



XV. Dressed

He had never put on women's clothing before. He was unsure where to start. The white garter, he supposed. As he was pulling it up to his waist, and ascertaining exactly how it worked, Mistress Wendy pulled the camera over towards the bed. 

"You love the little outfit I've brought you, don't you slut," she said.

"Yes, Mistress," he said, "I hardly deserve it."

"Tell me, how do you like the feel of the stockings?"

He was then just rolling the stockings up his leg. He spoke the truth when he said, "They feel great, Mistress. So soft. Such a sensation on my legs." Indeed, they did feel soft and almost soothing on his welt-stained legs.

He next slid on the white silk panties, then fastened the stockings to the garter. He got that right. His penis, long dormant from the pain, stirred against the wonderful fabric of the panties. He returned to full erection, and the tip of his penis poked up through the waistband. He wondered, "Now what? The soft, black maid's dress?" She again read his doubting mind.

"The shoes. Put on the shoes," she said. His toes stung as he plunged them into the patent leather, long-heeled shoes. The shoes each had a strap above the ankle. Mistress Wendy locked each strap with tiny padlocks. "Walk a bit for me, whore," said. "Frolic for the camera."

His toes screamed with pain as he stepped to the floor. He wobbled, then began some tentative steps. "Sashe, damn it. You love it and you know it," she said. "Walk. Strut you stuff, you slut." She slapped his ass playfully.

He quickly, if inelegantly, started to stroll back and forth before the bed—and the camera. His calves and lower back started aching, merging with the increasing pain in his toes. "Shake it," Mistress said, "Bend over and shake your booty."

Despite the pain and humiliation, he was remarkably responsive. He did as his Mistress demanded without pause. He leaned against the bed for support and swirled his buttocks. "Spread those cheeks," she said, and so he did. His toes, calves and lower back were in agony. God he hated those shoes.

She next grabbed a beer from the mini-bar. Mistress Wendy said, "Open wide." He did so. She dropped the tiny key to the padlocks of the ankle straps deep back on his tongue, splashed some beer in his mouth and, pressing his jaws closed, said, "Swallow hard, bitch." She shook his head and he gulped deeply. "Those shoes and hose will come off maybe tomorrow," she said, "If you are lucky and pass the key and find it in the morning. Maybe I can help you with that," she added. "Not the finding, the passing..."

She slapped his buttocks and said, "You finish prettying yourself up, honey, I've got to change."

He watched her incredible black vision pass through the door into the other unit. Somehow he still craved whatever attention she might give him. His thoughts then turned to "prettying himself up." As he put on the remainder of the French maid's uniform, the black dress with shoulder straps and a tiny white apron, he tried not to think about searching for the key in the morning, nor how she might help "the passing." He tried, too, as well as he could, not to think of the pain in his toes. Instead, he focused on what an incredible woman his Mistress was, and how much he longed to please her.

XVI. Threatened

He was leaning back against the side of the bed, almost sitting on its edge, trying to keep his weight off his feet, trapped as they were in the painful high-heeled shoes. The door between Sundown A and B burst open and Mistress Wendy stormed into the room.

"You begged me to fuck you?" she roared. "I'm going to rape you, pretty boy. Get used to it."

She presented a new vision in black. Her hair was tied in a tight knot behind her head, with a loose strand hanging down her forehead, and another gracing the side of her face. A tight, jet-black tee shirt, black boots, this time thick and short heeled. Tight black straight-legged Levis, worn over the boots. She looked lovely still, but extremely threatening. He noticed the large bulge in the crotch of her jeans, pressing against her zipper right up to the unfastened front button. But mostly he noticed the long straight-edged razor she brandished.

In a flash she was behind him, cupping his mouth in her free, left hand and pinching his nostrils shut with her fingers. With her right hand, she pressed the dull side of the razor against his throat. Shocked, he gulped for air, but only vainly sucked the heel of her hand. She held him before the full-length mirror and pressed her crotch against his ass.

"You're going to do exactly as I say. If you don't..." she slowly rotated the blade so the sharp edge approached his throat. He could see it clearly in the mirror and there was no need for her to complete her sentence or the rotation of the blade, which would have, at least, cut him for sure. He knew.

"Rape. It excites you, doesn't it," she said. "I suppose you have fantasized about it." In fact, the whole concept of rape appalled him. It was completely against his nature. He had two friends who admitted to having been raped, and he had wept for them and the unspeakable violation they suffered. Still, despite all that, he could not deny he had sometimes read of rapes, both play and real, and fantasized about it. Appalling and unthinkable, but in some way exciting in the darkest corner of his submissive mind.

Similarly, he had on occasion viewed pictures of beautiful Asian women with strap-ons, and fantasized being ravished by them. But in fact when with a clearer head he thought of someone sticking something up his anus, he imagined it sickening, painful and anything but sexually stimulating. The same with wearing women's clothing. It was the idea, not the reality, that had brought him to this spot. 

But this was all too real. He wanted to be home in bed, never having known the pain of the beatings and the humiliations he had already suffered. But things were completely out of his control. He was now convinced his Mistress was crazy, and he might well die if he did not do as he was told. In short, this was rape, although he was not entirely innocent. He put himself in this position. His thoughts now turned to survival.

"I'm going to release your mouth now," she said, "You had better not scream." His pleading eyes said "yes, let me breath." She slowly released her hand from his mouth and pulled hard on the hair on the back of his head. The sharp edge of the blade moved with the jerks of his throat as he gasped for air. "Are you with me?" she asked. He could barely voice his consent. She rotated the sharp edge of the blade away from his throat and said, "All right."

She pushed him harshly backwards onto the bed. His head smacked into the headboard. "Spread your legs, slut, I'm going to tie you up." He did so, quickly, and his legs lay limply sprawled on the bed. Mistress Wendy took some lengths of cotton rope. She wrapped them several times around each ankle. Spreading each leg tight, she tied the rope-ends to the corner bedposts. Without saying more, and with no resistance on his part, she pulled his arms up behind him, tied his wrists together, and tied them off on the middle of the headboard. Her every action was rough, carrying an unspoken threat that cowered him further.

With her back to him, she sat down straddling his chest. She hummed a bit of a tune he could not quite place as she slowly slit open his panties then slid the razor under the waistband and made a neat cut. She slid the razor under his back and cut the waistband of the panties once again. She yanked the shredded panties off. She stood, turned, and sat roughly on his stomach. She leaned over and kissed him. It was a kiss loaded with passion, but devoid of affection. He wished to pull away from the mouth he once craved for, but of course he couldn't, and wouldn't have if he could. She finally pulled off and stared into his eyes.

"I think you know better than to scream, but I'm afraid you might not be able to help yourself," she said, with a sinister laugh. "Chew on these." With that, she stuffed the panties in his mouth. She resumed her former position sitting with her back to him and placed the sharp edge of the razor against the base of his scrotum. "It is time to make a real lady out of you."

Mortified, he wanted to struggle, but dared not. Not with the blade placed where it was.

"You want to be a lady, now, don't you?" she asked, he thought, rhetorically. She spun and lunged onto his stomach, taking his wind. She put the knife to his throat and asked again, "You want to be a lady, don't you? You were just begging me a moment ago."

He shook his head madly and sobbed behind the panty gag, "No, please don't don't. Please..." The sound was completely muffled, but his meaning was clear enough.

"What?" she screamed, slapping him hard across the face. "Now you don't want to be my little slut? You're making crazy—and very angry. So, what is it you want? You want to be cut here?" she asked as she pressed the dull edge of the blade against his throat, "or down there?" gesturing behind her where his exposed manhood lay. "Decide now. Which will it be?"

She slapped him again, and yanked the balled panties from his mouth. Freed from the gag, he still could not speak. He was frozen with terror, and could only manage little gasps.

"Jesus," she said in disgust, "you're not just a whore and a slut, you're biggest whimp I've ever seen. I guess I'll have to decide for you."

She stuffed the panties back in his mouth. She was turning her back to him again when she stopped. "I can't stand that pitiful look in your eyes, bitch."

She got up and went to the other unit. In her absence he pulled mightily against the bonds on his ankles and wrists. That only seemed to tighten their hold. In a panic, he yanked at the bonds, virtually trying to throw himself against them in effort to flee. After a few moments he collapsed, helpless and defeated. She returned to the room with the pantyhose she had been wearing in the afternoon. She pressed them against his mouth and nose, at the same time stopping his breath and filling his senses with the souring smell of her afternoon juices. She pulled the hose over his head, and then, as best as he could tell, she wrapped and tied the legs around his head and over his eyes. "That's better," she said.

He heard her as she left the room briefly. He made one last, vain, almost token, effort to try to wriggle or pull himself free.

XVII. Close Shave

She returned and again sat heavily on his stomach. He could not see, but he knew her back was to him. He felt the cold steel of the blade at the base of his scrotum. She traced the half circle there, then squeezed his balls and pulled up. He was screaming in pain and terror, but only muffled sounds came through the gag and pantyhose mask. He felt his scrotum being pulled back towards his belly, then a warm liquid spread over his crotch. He nearly passed out, but was denied that exit. At least, he thought, he had gone numb not long after she first squeezed and lifted his balls. He could feel almost nothing where he was sure his balls had been. He figured he now had nothing. Next he heard a harsh scraping sound, and last the sound of tape, hospital tape he knew. Then he felt a hard pulling and pressing in his crotch.

That was it. He felt her rise from his stomach and sensed her standing beside the bed.

"Oh, what happened to my pretty boy?" she asked. "Lost something, I see. At least he's—it's—more ladylike," she said, laughingly fiendishly. "Well, he begged me to be his French maid, and he thought just a maid's outfit would do."

There was something terribly mad in her referring to him in the third person. Like she was totally crazy, and what he had been longer existed. He struggled yet again against his bonds, and raised his head to look at what once had been his manhood. Of course, his pantyhose mask and blindfold kept him from seeing, but his terrified need to know required at least the effort.

"I wonder. If I remove the gag, will his—its—voice squeak? If it's a soprano? He was Tony, now he's Antoinette. Lost his head, as it were." Again the awful laugh He believed that her terrible deed had even driven her fully mad. Like another personality was taking over.

Suddenly she pulled the pantyhose hood from his head. He was staring straight at what once had been. What he saw, was a hard ball of hospital tape and gauze. He noticed he was also cleanly shaven.

She again had the blade at his throat, but somehow this hardly phased him. "You spineless, stupid cunt. So worried about a shave and a wrapping. Did you think I could rape you while you had a hard on flopping about?" He was still gagged, but she added, "Don't answer."

She again straddled him on the stomach, this time facing him and looking deep into his eyes. "Not that I wouldn't cut your balls off. I want to, really. You deserve it. But if you cooperate now, I won't have to. I'm about to rape you so hard you will wish I had simply cut your throat. And I want to hear your ridiculous little moans. I want to hear you begging me to stop, telling me what a slut you are. That you want to be my girlfriend. I want to hear you suffer. I want you to give me a blowjob like the wildest blowjob you've ever imagined. Not because you want to, but because you have to. I want to fuck your mouth. So, I need to take that gag out. If you scream for help, don't think I won't use the blade. And this time it won't be for a simple shave."

"Are you with me?" she asked. His eyes locked with hers. His eyes were speaking. They said, "I'm with you. I have no choice." They said, "I believe you are crazy and I just want to get through this somehow." They said, "God, I'm frightened. Please don't rape me. But don't kill me. Don't castrate me. I'll do anything to survive."

She rather slowly pulled down her zipper. A large black strap-on sprung from her pants. It was maybe seven inches long, thick and firm, but not completely rigid. It scared the daylights out of him.

She again asked, "Are you with me?"

He hesitated and nodded his assent.

To be continued...



No Holiday at the Beach Ch. 7



XVIII. Oral

"O.K., then," she said. "Now listen closely, slut. When I remove the gag, you're going to do as I say or you will really regret it. Really regret it. Believe me. We are not playing anymore. This is for real. I'm going to rape you hard, you whore, it's just what you deserve."

While she said this she had pinched his nose closed. She was speaking slowly, and her voice was as ice. He was already gasping for air.

She waited a while, as he shook his head wildly trying to free his nose and get some air. Her pinched grip held firm. Again he thought he might pass out. "Now, then," she finally said, "one last time. Do you understand?"

She released the hold on his nose. He badly needed air. At first all he could do was take short, stunted breaths. His mouth still gagged, his nose could not draw the oxygen he wanted. His breathing was wracked sniffing. Thinking only of getting air, he had not yet answered his Mistress's—his rapist's—question.

She slapped him and asked again, "Do you understand?" She pinched his nose again, and he did not wait a second before frantically nodding his head. Behind the gag he tried to say, "Yes. Yes. Yes. Dear god, yes. Please. Please."

"All right," she said. She released his nose. He was again doing his best to take deep breaths, as she circled his lips with her fingers. "O.K., you worthless slut. The first thing you're going to do is give me a blow job. And it better be good."

With that, she pulled the panties out of his mouth. She pulled her tight jeans just slightly down her hips to further free the large strap-on. She leaned back and said, "Come to daddy, slut."

He tried his best to rise to meet the dildo. As he did so, she leaned slowly back. His wrists bound to the headboard, he could not quite reach the dildo with his lips.

"Come on, now," she said, "You better do better than that." He pulled as hard he could against his restraints, and his head reached helplessly just short. She reached behind his head and pulled him slightly more forward, but still an inch short.

"I'm waiting," she said, "… but not much longer." He thrust his tongue out and tried to stretch even further. Once or twice he made a grazing contact on the head of the dildo. "Maybe you should beg, whore", she said.

Without hesitation, he murmured, "Please, let me suck your beautiful cock…" He paused. He wondered if he should say "Mistress" or "Master" or just leave it at that. She said, almost shouting, "I said I beg, whore."

"Let me suck that beautiful cock. Please. I need to. Please." He was babbling.

"All right, then," she said, and edged forward on his chest.

He tried to remember the best blow jobs he had ever received. This was hard, because it now seemed like they had occurred, if ever, in a previous life. He began by giving a few playful nips to the head. The dildo was quite realistic. It had a small dent, a hole as it were, at the end, and at the base was a mock scrotum. He did a quick lick around the head, and darted his tongue into the hole. Then he gave several long, slow licks along the full length of the underside of the dildo, occasionally giving a few more nips to the head, and nibbling—very gently— at the shaft..

"Yes," she said, almost in a moan, as if she could feel this. "More," she said, "more."

He continued in this fashion, sometimes also taking the dildo's scrotum in his mouth and sucking. He wanted—or rather he thought he should, given his mandate—lick at the base of the scrotum, too, but he was prevented from doing so by her jeans.

"That's enough foreplay, cunt," she said in a muted, hissing scream, "suck me. Suck me like your life depended on it. It might."

He pulled his head back and wrapped his lips around the dildo. It was not quite thick enough to stretch his lips, but as he moved forward he was surprised at how quickly it seemed to fill his mouth, pressing in the back and nearly gagging him before he even reached halfway up the shaft. He bobbed his head back and forth, sucking. As he did so, he sometimes flicked his tongue on the underside, and occasionally he would pull off and give the head or scrotum a suck or a rim.

She was moaning loudly now, sometimes saying "Yes. Yes. Yes. That's it." She would sometimes add, "More. More."

He tried to take more of her in, but he started to gag every time the dildo reached the opening of his throat. He had been so focused on trying to do as demanded that he had scarcely noticed the increasing shaking and thrusting of her hips.

Then she half-screamed, "Aahh, aahh…", and with the that she thrust forward, burying the dildo deep into his throat. Involuntarily he tried to pull away. His legs and wrists struggled against their bonds. She began slamming the dildo down his throat in rhythm. He backed off, but she followed. Soon his head was slamming hard against the headboard as she roughly, then almost viciously, rammed her hips forward and slammed the dildo down his throat again and again.

Eventually the violent slamming stopped, but she remained pressed hard and full against his face. The dildo filled his mouth and throat, as she now shivered her hips, pressing, pressing harder. He realized, with shock, that she was actually coming. Finally, after a long sigh, she withdrew and slumped back from his head.

He gulped again for precious air, scarcely realizing the incredible pain in his jaw, lips, gums and throat. He noted that for now, at least, Mistress Wendy seemed relaxed. But the dildo remained as firm and ready as ever.

IXX. Climax (Day One Ends)

She took his head in both hands and began to kiss him violently. He had long since forgotten how he once longed to be kissed by her. She was a monster, and the kisses—forced with an open mouth—hurt badly. He tried to pull away, but of course could not. She bit at his shoulder through the maid's uniform and said, "Kiss me, you slut, don't pull away from my kisses."

This was almost more revolting than giving the blow job. At least the dildo was inanimate, even if it was animated. This was the very real mouth of his rapist. Still, he knew resisting would be fruitless and dangerous, slowly he succumbed to the kisses. He rose to meet her and returned the kisses with the semblance of fervor. "Give me your tongue, slut." He feared she might bite it off, but he did so. He flicked his aching tongue against hers. Licked her teeth and gums. The roof of her mouth. She did, indeed, bite it. Not hard, but hard enough to hurt and frighten him.

"Now, the fun starts," she said, rising up from him and standing beside the bed to his side. He stared, frozen, straight at the ceiling. "Please no. Haven't you had enough? Please," he said desperately. "Not this."

"Yes, this," she said, pulling his head to stare at the menacing dildo right before his face. "I'm going to ram this straight up your ass, you whore."

"No. Please," he whimpered.

"I can't imagine you've not done this before," she said. "You're such a little slut."

This gave him some hope. "Never, Mistress, really, never," he said, "And I don't want to. Ever." Although his voice was still that of a man, the words were like those of a little girl.

"That's not what you said before," she replied, stroking the dildo before his eyes. "Come on, give it a big kiss."

He said, "Really, Mistress, I don't like this. This is not what I had in mind at all."

"Fuck what you like, whore," she hissed. "You've never done this? Hard to imagine, but great. So what? I've always wanted a virgin. The thought gets me off all the more. Such a tight little male cunt you must have. By the way, my little boy here is going straight in. No lube, no nothing."

Despite his hopeless situation he again struggled against the bonds. That, like his virginity, seemed only to excite his rapist. "I like a little fight in a slut," she said, "I said kiss it." She grabbed his head and he had no choice but to do as asked she demanded. He kissed the large, black dildo.

She again had the long straight edge blade in her hand, and she pressed dull end against his throat. "Get ready, baby," she said.

She took the blade and, first grabbing the hem of the front of his maid's dress she made a slit the length of the dress along his body. The sound of the fabric being cut sent a shiver up his spine. She pulled the dress open and gave his nipples hard, biting kisses. Next she cut the ropes that bound his ankles to the bedposts, and roughly flipped him over onto his stomach. Starting this time from the collar, she slowly slit the length of the back his maid's dress. Then she slid the knife under the fabric at each of his shoulders and cut those too. She took the now shredded outfit and tossed it aside. "Such a waste," she said. "We'll have to find a new one for you tomorrow. If you've liked today, you're going to love tomorrow," she added.

"O.K., now, up on your knees, slut. Wiggle that cute little ass of yours." Again, he had no choice. He slowly raised to his knees, head down on the pillow, wrists still bound to the headboard, and he wiggled his ass.

As he did this, she placed a rubber hospital glove on her right hand. "I really want to just stick my dick in you and fuck you hard, but I'm afraid that tight little virgin male cunt of yours wouldn't even open. We'd be here all night," she said. He thought how this day—and night—already felt like more than a lifetime in hell to him. He wondered what time it was. He had no idea, as if it mattered. Then he noticed the sounds of the first birds of the morning. It must be nearing dawn.

His mind was quickly brought back to his plight as she began probing his anus with her fingers. He could not tell what exactly was being done. Several times he felt stretched to the maximum, then something inside him, only to be followed by further stretching.

"I want to hear some chatter," she said. "Start talking."

"Please stop," he said, "god please stop."

"God?," she said. "I'm a goddess, or did you forget? I guess I might seem like a god now. Beg your god to fuck you," she said, "Beg!"

"Stop," he said, "Just stop it." She grabbed his throat with her left hand and pulled up hard. "I said beg," she said.

"Please fuck me," he immediately responded. "Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me." The tone was part begging, part a curse of himself and part total abandon.

"All right then," she said, "as you wish."

With one quick thrust she entered him. He felt like his insides had been torn apart. He let out a scream. She screamed, too, in apparent ecstasy. "Yes," she roared, "Yes."

He lurched violently, trying to pull off. She buried her nails into his shoulders, riding him and driving still further up his anus. His head was now again pressed against the headboard. He had no where to move. As she pushed forward he involuntarily pushed back. "Yes," she kept repeating. Soon the full length of the dildo was inside him. She continued pressing hard. Both of their bodies quivered, but for vastly different reasons.

After some time she withdrew. He could not help but note the incredibly pleasant sensation as she did. He was immensely relieved. At least it was over.

She turned him over on his back and draped his legs over her shoulders. His stockings were a mess, one of them completely down his leg and gathered at his ankle. The other was crumpled at his calf. Of course his shoes remained locked in place.

She slowly removed her tee-shirt. She licked her lips and darted her tongue at him, then said, "Take this," and thrust the dildo forward once again. His anus took almost the whole shaft on the first thrust. Again he screamed as he felt his insides torn apart. She leaned forward, stretching his legs painfully as the remainder of the dildo entered him.

As she rocked on top of him, she took the razor and held it to his throat. "Now. Listen good. I'm going to cut you wrists free. You will not—you had better not—try to push me away. Slut, I want you to hold and kiss me while I fuck you."

So she cut his wrists free. She helped him forward and up, and they were locked in an embrace, as she continued to rock inside him. He gave her some exhausted, indifferent kisses. She said, "Shower me with kisses, whore. You live for this."

She closed her eyes and settled into a soft rhythm inside him. He kissed her eyelids, her nose, her mouth. He licked her shoulders and armpits, then settled at her breasts. In spite of it all, he noted how perfect they were and he indulged in the breasts with relish.

The pace of her thrusts gradually quickened. She was sighing heavily, and apparently nearing another orgasm. She pulled his legs off her shoulders and lay heavily on top of him. The dildo held firm and she thrust wildly before finally collapsing. She lay for a long time with the dildo still inside him. He could feel her heart beat against him, in time the heartbeat slowed to what he presumed was normal. He feared his Mistress had fallen asleep. She eventually pushed herself up, slowly. The dildo slid out of his anus and as it did he again felt a wonderful sensation of immense relief. Not just relief. Release. It was close to an orgasm. She took the blade and removed the hospital gauze from his cock and scrotum.

"Kneel on the floor, bitch," she said. "We're not quite through. I know you loved that, you trampy slut. Look at you." He looked down and indeed to his own amazement he noted the beginning of an erection. "Well you're such a good fuck you deserve the chance to come, I suppose. It might even amuse me. I'll let you play with that pitiful little dick of yours if you give me another blow job."

She swung her legs down over the side of the bed. He knelt before her and took the dildo in his mouth. He concentrated on the incredible sensation of masturbating after this ordeal. He tried not to think about the bitter, salty taste of his own filth on the dildo. He sucked it hard as he beat off. She laughed, pointed to the mirror and said, "Just look at you, you little slut."

There he was, dressed in heels and stockings, masturbating wildly as he gave his Mistress a blow job. It was absurd. He could not believe it was his image in the mirror. Still, this did not stop his feverish masturbation and sucking. She laughed again, pointed to the camera, "Look into the camera with those lovely eyes of yours slut." And so he did, and it still did not faze him.

Finally his body shook as he approached orgasm. She warned him, "Catch it all." That was impossible, really, as the first few squirts of semen shot out as if from a pistol. But he did catch nearly all of it. She said, "Hold it out before you." He did. She lay the dildo in his cum, swirled it on his palm, and said, "Finish it off." And he did.

End of Day One