1 comments/ 48453 views/ 5 favorites Little Dicky By: estragon Warning- the following contains elements of bloodsport, watersport, scat, menstruation and noncon/reluc, as well as derogatory racial, ethnical and religious references. If any of this offends you--go on, read the story, you know you want to, so you can leave a snarky comment and drop a one-bomb. All participants are over the age of 18 years. All characters, places and activities are fictitious; any reference to any actual person living or dead, or any place or thing now or formerly existing, is purely coincidental; as to public figures or institutions, a qualified Federal and State Constitutional privilege is hereby asserted. Mistress Janet Travers decided to give herself a night on the town in Manhattan before catching the eleven o'clock morning flight to Montréal. She left Marisol with complete instructions, not that she needed them. Marisol could take care of Jenny and any drop-ins who might come by. The Connecticut house had good security, and Marisol had plenty of CS gas and the pistol. More to the point, she was trustworthy. The house had become hers, with Marisol and the money to run it, on the deaths of Mistress Erica and Mistress Andrea in a horrendous snowstorm pile-up on I-95 two years ago. More difficult was the switch from sub to Domme, but fortunately Mistress Erica had her nearly through it when.... The last year had been the marriage of heaven and hell. Heaven, as Mistress Janet grew into the role of Domme. Hell, being without Mistress Erica and Mistress Andrea, having to ask herself not 'what would Mistress Erica do?' but 'what must I do?' And heaven and hell intersected, when she took the beating from the ferociously sadistic Mistress Lauren, to spare Natalie, a young sub totally out of her depth. Once she left the hospital, she took Natalie into her own house. She was able to play the role she always wanted, élèveuse, not teacher, but elaborator, like a master vintner, bringing from the fruit of Natalie's body the delicious nectar that would give pleasure not only to Mistress Janet, but to the others who would possess her. She would follow the precepts of Mistress Andrea: anticipate but always be adaptable; flog seldom, but flog thoroughly; treat the sub as a child, not an object, but lovingly, caringly, bringing from submission a form of love that no vanilla could ever know. Finally, be a Domme--dominate, subdue, control. Do not let sentimentality, which could engender a terrible kind of cruelty, replace intellect and honesty--and never let sentiment be a substitute for love. The girls came to her, from where she could never tell. They brought fear with them, rejection wrapped around them, self-loathing hanging on them like a backpack full of stone. They left fulfilled, free, carrying memories of beatings but also nights of almost unbearable orgasms. It was a year she would never forget, her butterfly year. Now, tonight, it was dinner at Le Bernardin with a half-bottle of Cakebread Sauv Blanc after an evening at the theatre. Soon it would be her bed at the Hilton, alone, unless she found company. But if she found a companion for the night, buttocks to flog, an anus to penetrate roughly, but most of all a person to love, even for a few hours--or if not-- she smiled. Tomorrow would be another day. Walking slowly east on 52nd Street, Janet drank in the city and the night. Yes, it was dangerous, filthy, creepy, expensive--but it was exciting, alive, putting a woman to the test every second, a close-combat course with no second place winner. She handed a dollar to a beggar at Sixth Avenue, turned uptown and walked into the Hilton. Turning right through the lobby, she found her way to the bar. At nearly five foot nine and not model-thin, she needed more than a half-bottle of Sauv Blanc, even at 13.6%, to get tipsy, but she wanted no more alcohol. She ordered ginger ale with a maraschino cherry, a little-girl drink. That set the tone for her scan for a little girl. The girl wasn't little, only two inches or so shorter than she was. Big breasted, hourglass figure, big hips and a wide ass, maybe a candidate for Weight Watchers. And wearing a wedding ring. Oh well, if you never ask, you never get. "Are you here for the convention?" It never failed in a big metropolitan hotel; there's always a convention. "No. What convention?" "The one tomorrow." "Oh. No, it's just business." Good, maybe no husband; or maybe the ring is just for show, like an ADP sticker on the window of a house with no burglar alarm. "Me too. New York today, Montréal tomorrow. Where are you going?" "I'm here, teaching." "Oh, college?" "No, work. I work for Ernest & Cowper, CPAs. I'm up from Dallas to teach the international tax accounting course to new hires." Great, brains and big tits--and straight? "How long is the course?" "Just one day. Then home again." "Back to the family?" "Me, the husband and the dawg." Perfect! Brains, big tits, straight and an accent. Now let me play this right. "I'm going on the road to take some informal continuing ed. I just started a new line of business, personal training, and I'm going to Montréal to talk to someone who was recommended to me as the best in Canada." "Personal trainer as in gym?" "Not quite, although that's part of it. Personal development." "Interesting." "Yeah. You want another drink? I just finished mine. My treat." She waved to the bartender. "Same again." Keep her talking, keep the drinks coming, find out when she has to be up tomorrow (her class starts at ten--good, and the venue is around the corner). Friendly, non-threatening, no touching, just girls chatting; keep it light, make it mellow. "What floor are you on?" "Seventeen." "Me too. I'll ride up with you." Of course she wasn't on seventeen, but once alone in the elevator with her prey it didn't matter. Remember Mossad at Dubai--cameras everywhere. No evidence, right? So let her push the elevator button for her floor, let her walk ahead, walk her to the door--then the quick push-in, the kidney punch to stun her, the handcuffs and the gag...under fifteen seconds. "Now, sweetheart, don't be scared. I won't hurt you...much. And I won't take anything." Quick at undressing her, jacket, skirt, blouse (slide the cuff off, then the sleeve, then re-cuff), bra (oh those tits!), pantyhose (check for tampon, not that menstruation is a problem, just need more towels) and shoes. Get her on the bed, face down. "Just relax, sweetheart, I'll be back soon." Picking up the woman's room key where she dropped it, Janet left, went to her room to gather the toys and props, and returned. "OK, darling, nod your head if you need to pee." No nod. "Sure?" Janet kissed her neck and shoulder. "We're going to have a little fun, you and I. Have you ever been with a Domme before? Lift your left leg if you have." No response. "Good, I like trainees. Now let me clean you up a little." She took the baby wipes and carefully cleaned the woman's anus, inserting her finger in as deep as it would go. When she pulled out the wipe, it was dark brown. "Oh, you dirty girl, you don't wipe carefully enough." Smack! Smack! Smack! Whimper. "Don't whimper, girl, there's no excuse for a dirty hole." Smack! Smack! Smack! "Especially when Mistress has a nice clean rod for you." Janet reached under her and heard her gasp through the gag as she began squeezing her breast. The nipple was large and firm. Janet pinched it, rolled it in her fingers, pulled at it and squeezed it hard. In the half-light from the room's entrance, she could see the tears dripping from her eye. "Don't cry, darling; I won't hurt you...much." She went back to her assault on the breast. "Now let's see how you're doing." She probed the woman's anus again, first one finger, then two, then three. "Nice and tight. Virgin? No, don't answer. If he got a few pokes in, I don't mind. But I give the best." Janet stripped quickly. She never wore bra or panties, her stockings were thigh-highs, and the dress went over her head (no time for zippers). She lay across the woman's back. "Feel those tits, darling. You'll get a chance to suck them later, if you're a good girl." She kissed her way down the woman's back. "Oh, look at the lovely melons. You grow 'em great in Texas. Good enough to eat," and she bit the woman's buttock. The woman's muffled scream was almost too loud. "Sorry, darling, I get enthusiastic," and she bit again and again, less hard but enough to call up some grunts. She spread the woman's buttocks and began. Her tongue drove its way inside, as she kneaded and stretched her buttocks. The woman began to move, pushing herself into Janet's tongue. Janet paused, said "I knew you'd catch on fast", spread the woman wider, pushed her tongue back in. Finally, Janet pulled away and got the antiseptic handwash. Rubbing it carefully over her hands, paying close attention to her close-cropped nails, she shoved two fingers into the woman's vagina. "A little dry, darling, but we can fix that later." Janet took the Astroglide-2, her favorite, and applied it to the woman's asshole. Too much is just enough. Janet got out the seven-inch strappy; this one couldn't handle the nine-inch. She carefully put the second prong in her own cunt, which was delightfully wet. "Take a deep breath, precious," she told the woman, "and think pretty thoughts." She climbed on the bed, carefully sited in the tip and inserted the business end. Moving slowly, she forced the outer sphincter aside, feeling the "anal wink" as the woman involuntarily closed, heard her moaning, saw more tears, moved more and more slowly, pushing in. "Hang on, honey, here it comes." And she ass-fucked the woman hard, using short sharp strokes, driving the second prong into herself. Her climax was quick. She relaxed, let the orgasmic tide ripple through her, and started again. The woman groaned, grunted, and spasmed. Shit, she came...a natural. How did I get this lucky? "Ooooh, aren't you a horny one?" Janet asked. "He not giving you enough? You came (pun intended) to the right place, darling." She fucked the woman and herself to another orgasm, then removed the strappy and went to the bathroom. "Back in a New York minute, darling, got to clean the toy." She washed and dried the strappy, took a long, pleasant piss without flushing the toilet, left the bathroom light on, and returned to her guest. "Now, if you promise to be good, I'll take off the cuffs and the gag, and we can play. But if you try anything silly, they go back on, and," lifting the woman's head from the bed by her hair and brandishing the nine-inch in front of her face, "you get the grand prize, in your cunt and in your ass, with no lube. Understand? Lift your left leg if you do." The woman did. "Will you play nice, sweetheart? Lift your right leg if you promise you will." The woman lifted her right leg. Janet uncuffed and ungagged her. Janet turned her over and kissed her, thrusting her tongue into the woman's mouth. She began playing with the woman's breasts, kneading and pinching. The woman's nipples were hard, and her breath was shorter. "OK, baby, it's time for my fun," and she shifted rapidly, on her knees, over the woman's face. "You never did this before, right?" "N-n-no." "It's not that hard, darling. Just do what comes naturally." She bent over, placed her tit in the woman's mouth. It was warm, and the woman salivated heavily. Nice. "Now do me," Janet said, straightened up, and put her pussy where her mouth was. Mediocre blowjob, but what the hell, perfection never happens on the first date. The woman's face was dripping Janet's cum when she finished. "You're going to make a great sub for some lucky Domme, darling. Lose the 'him' and join the movement." Janet kissed the woman, dressed and left. She needed some sleep. Tomorrow, even if it was another day, was going to be a long day. ********* The shuttlebus to LGA was tiring. New York traffic was its usual self. She was so glad the ride was over that she was glad even to deal with Central Terminal check-in, and get settled in waiting for her flight. Fortunately, the screaming babies and the energetic toddlers avoided the mid-morning flight to Trudeau-Dorval. The desk crew were nothing special, and Janet had long since given up hope of finding anything enticing among the Air Canada cabin crew. The first class cabin lady looked old enough to have taught Charles Lindbergh how to fly. Baggage claim and Douane Canada Customs were less nerve-wracking than she feared. Apparently her toys were tamer than some, or maybe the Canadians were more naïve or tolerant than their colleagues south of the border. She hadn't bothered to rent a car, nor look up her destination on that infallible guide, GoogleMaps. The cab fare was substantial; although a bus was available, the nearest stop was about a quarter-mile from her destination on the far side of Mount-Royal, and would have necessitated two changes from public transport to get even that far. But the end was worth the journey. Once she had walked to the gate, which spanned barely a car's width, in a high concrete wall topped by razor-wire and what looked like shards of glass, she located the telephone box and announced herself. The gate swung open to reveal a Renaissance château at the end of a sweeping driveway. "Walk inside the gate, put down your bags, and wait at the drive," crackled an unseen loudspeaker. Janet did as she was told. The gate swung shut with an authoritative "Bang!" From behind the house (house? Palace was more like it) came what seemed to be a golfcart. As it drew closer, Janet observed that the driver was black, African black skin nearly blue. She was also naked. Fortunately it was a hot July day. Janet was uncertain what her greeting would be like if it were January. The golfcart stopped, and the driver stepped out as if she were the diva arriving at the red carpet. Then, surprisingly, she knelt on the grass in front of Janet, subservient but not without spirit ('Ooooh,' thought Janet, 'what fun she's going to be'), big black breasts with dark chocolate nipples, and an ass that looked like the last two watermelons on the wagon. Big white teeth and a winning smile greeted her. "Welcome, Mistress Janet, I am slave Xirelle. May I have the exquisite pleasure of serving you?" "It is my pleasure, slave," said Janet, slipping her foot from her slip-on for Xirelle to kiss. "Take me to your Mistress." No piercings, no collar, not even a tattoo? 'Strange way to treat one's slaves', thought Janet, 'but maybe that's how they do it in Canada.' "At once, Mistress Janet." Xirelle rose, and in one fluid motion hefted Janet's bags into the back of the golfcart. Janet admired the muscular arms, the wiggle of the tits and ass, and the delightful smile. Xirelle handed Janet into the golfcart and drove up to the entrance door. It must have been fourteen feet high, wrought iron inset with leaded glass, and weighed at least a ton. Xirelle pushed a button and the door swung open silently. "Mistress Janet, I'll be back with your luggage momentarily. In the meantime, here is slave Soon-Ja Kim to serve you." Xirelle bowed her way back through the door and went off, apparently to park the golfcart. "Mistress Janet, welcome. I am slave Soon-Ja Kim. Slave Xirelle will place your luggage in your room. In the meantime, Maîtresse Marie-Ange is in the Grand Salon. She directs me to take you there immediately." "Then do so without delay." Janet was curt as she looked over the woman. Older than Xirelle, maybe early thirties. Naked, of course, but like Xirelle, Soon-Ja Kim had no piercings or collar. Tall for a Korean, with small slightly sagging tits, shaved mons, flat ass, and an inscrutable face, no hint of emotion. Might be anything, but if what she'd heard of Maîtresse Marie-Ange was true, even her slaves weren't to be trifled with. Soon-Ja Kim led her through a marble-floored foyer into a large, sunny room, furnished in sixteenth-century French style. Only the modern electric fixtures gave a hint that the Twenty-First Century had arrived even here. Soon-Ja Kim dropped to her knees and crawled into the Grand Salon. She crept to the feet of the woman seated in a carved chair, suitable to the room's décor, and kissed her booted feet. "Ma Maîtresse, v'la Maîtresse Janet Travers." "Bien. Va t'en, vite vite!" Soon-Ja Kim crawled rapidly away, spreading her legs to show her shaved cunt and plugged asshole as she went. "My dear Janet, how pleasant to see you! Do sit down. If you wish refreshment other than what is here, I'll ring at once." "Maîtresse Marie-Ange, it is so gracious of you to invite me to your beautiful home and let me share all its delights." Janet looked around her as she and Maîtresse Marie-Ange exchanged pleasantries. There was a plate of cheese, apples and grapes, a plate of breadstuffs, and a silver wine cooler with three opened bottles. Choosing a Lirac rosé and carefully taking a slice of Gruyère on a slice of dark bread, Janet sat down on a chair across from her hostess, just a trifle lower in height and less ornately carved. As a Mistress, Janet did not ask if she might eat, nor require another's slave to serve her. Maîtresse Marie-Ange was clearly pleased by Janet's demeanor. "How lovely to see a real Mistress, even one so young as you, who knows how to be a Mistress. These little trollopes, who buy some cheap titholders from Victoria's NonSecret and a pair of even cheaper stilettos from PayLess Shoes, and order a sjambok from, Christ help us (here Maîtresse Marie-Ange made the Sign of the Cross, leaving Janet open-mouthed), Amazon-dot-fucking-com, for eighteen Loonies (expédition compris, tu sais), think they are 'mistresses.' Saint Sebastien fuck my grandmother! I wouldn't let them be my toilet bitch!" 'What the fuck is a sjambok?' thought Janet. Her puzzled look betrayed her. "Don't play poker, my darling Janet, at least not with me. This is a real sjambok." She handed Janet what looked like a three-foot long stick, gray but glistening with oil, a proper thickness for a hand-hold at one end but tapering to a finger's width at the other. The texture was like medium-grain sandpaper. Janet examined it and handed it back. "It's oiled rhinoceros hide, dear, from South Africa. The Boers used it to flog what they called the kaffirs, the Bantus and Zulus. They're illegal in Canada and South Africa both; in the first as it is made from an endangered species and in the second as a relic of apartheid. But a dear friend in the United States got it for me and got it here. He is a true Master, Le Grand Charles. "Amazon-dot-fucking-com sells a plastic version, made in China, naturellement. Moi, je fais poopoo de ça, entièrement!" "Of course, ma Maîtresse," was all Janet could say. "But you must be tired. Do you need to piss or shit?" Janet was taken aback by her directness. 'I'll be in style around here if it kills me,' thought Janet, and replied, "A piss would be just lovely." Maîtresse Marie-Ange reached behind her and pulled out an Iphone. She pushed a button. "Go through that door to your left and into the alcove. My toilet bitch will be waiting." Janet went through the door, and into a marble room. The ceiling was mirrored. Awaiting her was another slave, naked, anorexic-thin, her pelvic bones jutting out, her breasts barely visible. Her hair was clean but lank, as if washed and coarsely dried, but never shampooed. "Mistress Janet, I beg you, let me serve you." She sank to her knees on the marble floor. With no flesh to pad them, the impact must have hurt. "Proceed, slave." "Mistress, please, I beg you to let me state. I am not a slave, I am the toilet bitch. See." She rose and turned around. Her back, her ass and the backs of her thighs showed deep scarring, from a beating at least as terrible as the conscienceless Mistress Lauren had given Janet. Janet felt her stomach turn, sickened by what she saw, but she fought hard to keep her cool demeanor. Little Dicky "Very well, bitch, proceed." The woman turned to Janet and opened the back of her skirt. Carefully helping Janet remove her skirt and the bright red thong beneath it, the toilet bitch helped Janet to climb into The Chair. If the toilet bitch felt anything about Janet's scars from Mistress Lauren, she didn't show it. The Chair was as high as a bar stool, but the seat was pierced as a toilet seat. Beneath the seat was what seemed to be a headrest covered in some vinyl-like material, and beneath that was a drainage gutter in the floor, like that in an old-fashioned men's urinal. "Mistress, please wait for the toilet bitch to take her position," the woman asked. "Very well." Janet didn't know what else to say. 'Move it, I need to piss" didn't seem right. "Mistress, I am ready." The woman had pillowed her head on the headrest and was lying in the drainage gutter. 'What kind of fucking perverts are these?' Janet thought. 'Well, what the fuck, go for it', and she released her sphincter, sending a yellow stream falling straight on the toilet bitch's face. It was a lengthy piss, as Janet had not used the bathroom since leaving her hotel. The smell told the whole story. "Thank you, Mistress, please continue if you wish," came from below. 'Oh no,' Janet thought. 'Those damn bran muffins from the continental breakfast in first class....' The release of her urethral sphincter triggered her anal sphincter, and she was helpless. The turds came, fat and round like a 50-ring Davidoff Perfecto. Janet could barely imagine the effect, although the sounds from below made the effect perfectly clear. "Oh dear," said Janet, "that was unintentional, I assure you," momentarily forgetting her role as Mistress. "Do not worry, Mistress," came the calm voice from just below Janet's asshole. Janet heard the sound of running water, and looked. The woman was hosing herself clean from a garden hose attached to a faucet in the wall. Scrambling to her feet, showing obvious pain from her devastated back, she turned the faucet to high pressure, washing Janet's piss and shit away to the downspout at the end of the drainage gutter. The toilet bitch carefully cleaned her hands with antiseptic hand wash from a nearby shelf. She took a silken scarf and, helping Janet to her feet, bent her gently and wiped her asshole clean. Taking another scarf, she carefully wiped Janet's cunt. Finally, she applied a moisturizing cleanser to Janet's asshole with her fingers. "May I help Mistress dress?" Janet, uncertain of the etiquette of dealing with a toilet bitch (certainly neither Dear Abby nor Emily Post would have anything helpful to say), decided to take an aggressive approach. It seemed a good idea. "Did you think I was going to parade around here like this all day, you stupid bitch? Or don't you think? Get on with it, fool!" The woman speedily helped Janet to dress again, and held open the door, bowing as Janet left. "How did you like the toilet bitch?" asked Maîtresse Marie-Ange, smiling. "I wish I had one of my own," replied Janet. "She's entrancing. But I haven't found any in Connecticut, and I would have to rebuild my bathroom if I did." "So I did when I made that one into the toilet bitch, but it was worth the extra. When I have my period, I piss a great deal, with plenty of blood. The toilet bitch is just what I need to turn what was called a curse into a real pleasure." "I hope I do not show discourteous curiosity, Maîtresse Marie-Ange," said Janet, adopting a high-falutin' style of speech not usual to her, but uncannily appropriate to these outré circumstances, "but how did you acquire the toilet bitch?" "It's a long, unhappy story, with very happy ending. Please, Mistress Janet, pour me a large glass of the Vouvray, and I will tell you." Janet filled the proffered glass nearly to the brim, returned it to Maîtresse Marie-Ange, took a large slice of the Gruyére, a large chunk of bread, refilled her own glass and sat down. "I was, I think, nine years old when my mother died. My world ended. My father, much occupied with his business interests in Quebec and in France Outre-Mer, placed me in the school run by the Sisters of Saint Joseph. You have heard of this order?" "Only vaguely, Maîtresse. I'm not Catholic. Aren't they a teaching order?" "So they claim, and may be elsewhere. Here, in Montréal and in my childhood, they were a terrorist organization, the black-draped familiars of the Devil!" Her voice rose and she snarled the last words. Janet sat back, pinned to her seat by the fury in the woman's voice. "I was a baby, torn from my home. For my father, there was the Church, with a very large capital "C", La Langue Française, and French Canada. Tu sais, Les Anglais au pôteau! No? You don't comprehend? Hang the English from the lampposts! The verdict of 1759 must be reversed!" "1759?" "Oh, my dear, remember your history. Or rather, since you obviously don't, allow me. In 1759, the French General Marquis de Montcalm faced the British General James Wolfe, who commanded a mixed British-American force outnumbering Montcalm, at Quebec. Wolfe climbed the cliffs outside Quebec and attacked Montcalm on the Plains of Abraham. Both Generals were killed in the battle, but New France fell to the British. My father swore to return Quebec to France. Our language, our culture, our religion, were bulwarks against the English invaders. Who spoke against any of these was a traitor. "Not a word against our holy religion! So I was thrust into that chamber of horrors. Our lessons were accompanied by beatings. I was bright and knew how to give those black crows what they wanted by day, if not by night, so I was left alone. But by night? "They had their fun, dear Mère Sainte-Eglise, and dear Sœur Marie-Albert, and Sœur Jean du Croix. Oh yes. Have you ever heard what a nine-year-old girl sounds like while being deflowered? Or a ten-year-old being anally assaulted? I heard that, and I know what it is like to be waiting to see if one oneself is next, oh yes!" "Three horrible years in that prison! With the crows by day and the devils by night, and comforting again and again a child who has experienced what no child should ever, ever, if there is a God or a Jesus or anything, should ever experience!" Maîtresse Marie-Ange was trembling with fury. She threw her empty wineglass at the wall. Janet did not hear it shatter. "They came for me, finally. I screamed! I fought! By their lying God I fought! They would not have me or break me! I won; so they expelled me and gave me a bad conduct. "My father was furious, but what could he do? He found a mediocre non-religious school, a public one, and it was paradise! Mediocre education, but I could read. University was out of the question. "Later, as an adult, I went to the ministry of Public Prosecution to get justice for these raped innocents, who had been betrayed by those sworn to protect them. I was lucky I wasn't prosecuted. The political pressures, the rank dishonesty--those children will suffer to their graves and I will hear their screams to the day I die, but Quebec will remain loyal to the Church, the French language, and the myth of Montcalm, that blundering buffoon! And they are sure 1759 will be reversed--as if anyone but they gives a damn! "Mon chèr papa tried to disinherit me, of course, but his beloved Code Napoléon came to my rescue. He could not disinherit his only child. I got his treasure, and I kept mine." "Yours, ma Maîtresse?" Janet was overwhelmed by the force of this woman. "Yes, mine. My hymen, my maidenhead. Those devils wanted it, but they never got it! Neither has any man or woman, from that day to this. I have fucked every one of my slaves in every way I can think of (and I have a very vivid imagination, as you will see, my dear). But no one, no one, has ever, or will ever, fuck me! "It has been tried. And now I can answer your question. "The closest was Stephane, the one we know as the toilet bitch. A clever one, that piece of shit. She was a slave in training, an easy one to break and a decent one to train. But she was nothing special, neither a prospect for Mistress nor an outright failure, a sub no better than any other. So I was ready to let her go, as I was bored with her. "I was going to give her a farewell fuck, when she asked to eat my pussy. Well, why not, as it was her final appearance on that stage. She started well enough, a tit-nibble, a navel-licking, and then to the main attraction. She started on my lips, and went on to lick my clit. But then? "The fucking bitch tried to poke her finger through my cherry! I felt the stab and threw her off the bed. There was a slight stain of blood; she had come close, but the prize was still mine. I called for Catriona, a powerful girl from the West I had then, and Soon-Ja Kim, my longest-serving slave, whom you've met. "They triced her up in my donjon (I'll show it to you later, we'll need to familiarize you with it before Little Dicky gets here tomorrow), and I gave her the ultimate beating. Bloody lucky I avoided jail. But rather than release her, I decided to keep her. Now she has no name. She is not slave Stephane; as Jacob became Israel after wrestling with the Lord and winning, so she became the toilet bitch after wrestling with me and losing. And before bedtime tonight, and again in the morning, all of us, Mistresses and slaves, will use her appropriately." Maîtresse Marie-Ange rose from her chair. "I will now pay a visit to the toilet bitch, lest she feel neglected, and then I shall show you my home." The donjon was extraordinary. Drainage gutters, stainless steel rings embedded in walls, floors and ceilings, lights from every corner, a gynæcologist's examining table, a St Andrew's Cross capable of being rotated 360 degrees vertically and horizontally, racks of whips, crops, floggers, clamps, specula--never had Janet imagined such a thing. It made Mistress Erica's elaborate "playroom" look like a little girl's plastic play kitchen, compared to the kitchen and winecellar of a Michelin three-star restaurant. "Maîtresse, it is magnificent!" "Would you like to try any of my little jewels?" "Oh yes, may I?" Janet was a child again, with a rich aunt ready to spoil her. "Certainly. Which slave do you want?" "Xirelle, please." "She should have unpacked your luggage by now, used the toilet bitch, and be ready. I'll call." She took from her pocket the ubiquitous Iphone and pushed a button. Xirelle appeared as if waiting by the iron-shod door. "Where do you want her?" "On the examining table, to start, I think." "Very well." Xirelle smiled and climbed on the table, adjusting her feet in the stirrups. Janet strode to the table, carefully used the antiseptic handwash on the steel tray, and shoved three fingers into Xirelle's cunt. With her other hand she roughly kneaded the slave's breast. "Nice." She removed her fingers and pinched the slave's clitoris, catching it between her fingernails and tugging at it. Xirelle's eyes began to tear and her breath came in sharp spurts. Janet bit the slave's nipple hard and tugged with mouth and fingers. Then she stopped. "I can see that you have equipped this place perfectly, ma Maîtresse. Thank you for the exhibition." "Va t'en vite vite," said Maîtresse Marie-Ange to Xirelle, who scampered out of the room. "Would you like to try the table?" "Ma Maîtresse, I thought you'd never ask." Janet reached behind her, opened button and zipper, and let her skirt fall, removing her thong at the same time. She slipped out of her shoes and climbed onto the table. Maîtresse Marie-Ange lengthened the stirrups for Janet. She stared admiringly at Janet's tattoo. "It is Jimmy Famagusta, isn't it?" "Yes, ma Maîtresse. Do you know his work?" "Ma petite, not to know Jimmy Famagusta is to proclaim oneself unknown. He is the premier queer-sado tattoo artist in the world! And this (pointing at Janet's groin) bespeaks his mastery of his craft." Janet loved the tattoo. It had cost her more than $5,000, and had taken a month of sittings. It was a master artist's depiction of one master's photograph, and another's sculpture, a magnificent monument. Starting inside her right thigh, it showed a mountainside, battered and scarred by war. At the mountaintop, at the point where her thigh joined her mons, there were the six figures, reaching to the top of her mons. They wore World War Two United States military helmets, with M-1 Garand rifles slung from the shoulders of five of them, but there the resemblance ended; they were all women, and all naked. They were raising a flag, the foot of the flagstaff set right at the point her labia started, as if they were planting in the flag in Janet's pussy. The flag was the rainbow flag of Gay Liberation. In full fucking color. "Magnifique!" Maîtresse Marie-Ange was delighted. "You will display that to Little Dicky tomorrow, right before you piss in his face. He is an American draft-dodger from the Sixties. He will try to come at the very sight of it." ******** Dinner was splendid, a splendid spicy gazpacho followed by a cold roast of beef with fresh asparagus, pommes Anna, and plenty of freezing-cold Molson Export. In a refreshing change from the usual custom, Mistresses and slaves ate together, their ordinary roles set aside. Also unusually, all were dressed in ordinary clothing. They spoke as equals. The feeling of sisterhood, like the best of a club or sorority, made the dinner hour even more delightful. Even the toilet bitch appeared, naked but well hosed-down. She was fed the same meal as the others, but on the floor, in a corner, and was given water, not ale. She was not permitted to speak. But she did have knife (blunted at the tip, Janet noticed; a precaution?), fork, spoon and glass, and had a serviette. She had neither dessert nor an after-dinner coffee. She seemed touched to be allowed to eat with the others. At the end of dinner, the cook, a short, almost dwarfish man, barrel-chested and with a thick black beard, brought out the dessert and drinks trolley. The ladies applauded him. He bowed like a performer and retreated to his kitchen. Maîtresse Marie-Ange explained. "Monsieur Julien is not in the lifestyle, tu comprends, chérie. But he enjoys working here, and is not troubled by our amusements. And I love a man who can cook. You will enjoy our luncheon tomorrow, certainement." "I'm sure I will. And I will meet Little Dicky." "Yes. I'm sure you will enchant him. Coffee or tea?" "Coffee please, ma Maîtresse, but just a little." "You think you will not sleep well? I can give my guest something to help her sleep. Which slave would you like?" "Oh, Xirelle, ma Maîtresse." "Enjoy, ma chérie." 'I never fucked a black one before,' thought Janet. 'I'm always up for something new.' Xirelle's breasts were perfect for squeezing, kneading, biting, and just holding as Janet pistoned her from behind with her nine-inch and minimal lube. Xirelle's pussy lips were coal-black, but inside Janet found deep pink and tasty juice. And Xirelle knew how to tongue-fuck; 'her great-grandmama must have been a black mamba from Kenya', thought Janet. Then she came and came and stopped thinking. She slept with her head against Xirelle's cunt. ******** 'What a beautiful sunrise,' thought Janet, as she awoke. Xirelle had awakened and left the room silently during the night. 'A shame Maîtresse trains her slaves that well. It would have been fun to punish her for oversleeping by fucking her bouncy fat ass again.' Off to visit the toilet bitch. Now Janet discovered why Maîtresse Marie-Ange insisted upon everyone finishing their asparagus, and even forced second helpings upon them. The stench of her piss was apparent even from above; from below it must have been overpowering. "I wonder what's on the breakfast menu,' she thought, as, sated from her night with Xirelle, she showered alone and dressed herself. Asparagus omelette, Canadian bacon, freshly baked croissants (Julien must have slept less than the slaves), Normandy butter from Sainte-Mère-Eglise (a coincidence? No way! Maîtresse is too smart for that), and strawberry preserves. Endless cups of coffee and fresh pear juice. Janet sighed. Parfait! She went out to the garden and strolled through the grounds. What perfect weather! How beautiful! Just before noon, a bell sounded, light and musical. Janet came down to the Grand Salon. Maîtresse Marie-Ange was seated in her chair, and motioned Janet to sit on the chair beside her. The door opened, and in walked a dwarfish elderly man, just shorter than Julien. He had a bald pate with white hair down the back of his high-topped skull, a white goatee and a mincing manner. He wore a brown tweed suit, too heavy for the season, and of a style long since outdated. "Bonjour, ma Maîtresse," he almost whispered. Maîtresse Marie-Ange rose, smiling, and walked to the man, extending her right hand as if to offer it for a kiss. As the man bent to kiss her hand, the riding crop in her left hand slashed him across his ear. He screamed. Maîtresse Marie-Ange screamed in her turn, "You filthy little piece of shit, you cut-dick little cocksucker, how dare you walk in here? Strip!" He did. His white shirt had a dirty ring at the collar, his undershirt showed sweat stains, and his underpants were marked with yellow and brown stains, as if to show him which end was which when he put them on. Maîtresse Marie-Ange pushed a button on her inseparable Iphone. In came Soon-Ja Kim, crawling quickly to Maîtresse. "Take these to the toilet bitch in my private bathroom here, and tell her to see to them as usual." Turning to the naked man, "Down on your knees, shit, and if you touch that miserable little peter of yours I'll beat it to a paste." "Oui, ma Maîtresse," he whispered. "I'm not your Maîtresse, you don't deserve a Maîtresse! I'm your God, the God of vengeance for your filthy perverted ways!" "Come, chérie," she said to Janet, and as they walked to the bathroom Janet had used the previous day, Maîtresse Marie-Ange summoned Soon-Ja Kim and Xirelle. They crawled into the Grand Salon, around the kneeling man and into the bathroom with them. The man's clothing lay in the drainage gutter, arranged neatly. The toilet bitch sat in the corner on the tiled floor. She rose, and without a word, served each of the Misstresses and the slaves, helping them into The Chair and pulling the man's clothes under them as they pissed and, if so inclined, defecated on them. Janet's period had started, so she had the toilet bitch remove her tampon with her teeth. She menstruated on the clothing, as her asparagus-scented piss cascaded down. "He can wear it all home, if it's dry when he leaves, or go naked if he likes. He'll be a big hit on the bus," laughed Maîtresse Marie-Ange. "This little bastard ran away from the American draft in '67, married a local woman and had a child with her to get Canadian citizenship. The woman divorced him and his daughter left, when they discovered his disgusting perverted ways. Now we shall attend to him." Returning to the room, Maîtresse Marie-Ange sent slave Soon-Ja Kim to fetch manacles for hands and feet, and a ball gag and mask from the donjon. As she returned, Maîtresse Marie-Ange turned to Janet. "This garbage on the floor is Little Dicky. He blogs about bondage and discipline. He waxes philosophical, s'il vous plaît, about beatings. It is amusing." Facing the manacled, masked and gagged Little Dicky, she shouted in his ear, "Shit, you have beheld Mistress Janet. Soon you will know her even better, to your great chagrin." They proceeded, all standing and walking in order as if on parade, to the donjon. "Mistress Janet, please examine Little Dicky's little dicky." Little Dicky Janet reach down and pulled the flaccid organ. It started to harden. "Stop that!" she ordered, dropping his penis, grabbing his testicles and squeezing them hard. It stopped, and he bent forward, grunting loudly through the gag, his hands shaking in pain. "If you try that with me, bastard, I'll grind them to bits!" She hauled hard on his cock, looked at the glans uncovered, obviously circumcised. It seemed of normal length, say six inches or so, probably of usual thickness, neither very large but certainly not deserving the "Little Dicky" moniker. "He won't admit he's queer," said Maîtresse Marie-Ange, "but the little bastard is as gay as Saint Roch's dog. He writes endlessly about the women who dominate him. The laddie doth protest too much, methinks. We shall have Master John Thomas pay him a visit today, and visit him intimately. Then we shall see his true colours shining through." The man shuddered. Maîtresse Marie-Ange clapped her hands sharply. Soon-Ja Kim, moving as if choreographed, came to the man and, pulling his cock out, attached a peniswrapper of hard plastic, the inside studded with tiny spikes. She tied it tightly to his member, and he grunted as the spikes bit into his flesh. She attached a clamp, the sort of "C" clamp used by woodworkers or machinists, to each testicle, and hung a lead weight, the sort fishers use, from each. She applied nipple clamps to his man-boobs and hung like weights from those. Xirelle joined Soon-Ja Kim, and together they moved the man to the St Andrews Cross and shackled him to it. Maîtresse Marie-Ange, taking from a cabinet what seemed to be a television remote controller, rotated the Cross so the man hung face down from it, his body taking the full effect of the weights. "Mistress Janet, enjoy," said Maîtresse Marie-Ange, with an expansive gesture, as if showing off one of her treasures to a new friend. Janet looked through the racks. She tested whip after whip after flogger after crop, whistling them through the air, so that her prey might anticipate the blows to come. Settling on a nice, whippy, apparently new crop, she started. Shoulders, upper arms, muscles, shins, thighs, nice neat strokes. She could see his member straining at the peniswrapper, see the sweat on his body amidst the redness of the skin. "You whore's son, you're trying to get a hardon!" she screamed at him, slashing across his groin, hitting his penis and driving the spikes in. His scream could be heard through his mask and gag. Mistress Janet quickly stripped. She sent Xirelle to her room and told her where to find the nine-inch strappy and the lube. While she waited, she removed the man from the Cross with Soon-Ja Kim's assistance, and shackled his hands to the base, so he was bent forward at a painful angle, the weights adding to his pain. When Xirelle returned, Janet removed her tampon and saved it for later ('let him suck it clean, the pig'), fastened on the strappy with practised speed, and started to lube his ass. "Oh, you filthy little fuck, you got shit on my fingers!" She wiped them on his stomach, then thrust hard into his asshole. It must have been brutally, excruciatingly painful, but Janet didn't care; she came quickly and came again. The strappy was covered with shit and blood. "Well," she said, breathlessly, "now he'll have another souvenir on his underpants." He had almost achieved an erection under the peniswrapper. She stripped it off. "Look at his bloody little dingle," she said, laughing. "It's coming up roses." With the blood and precum on it, it was rose colored. "Now I have a real treat for you," said Maîtresse Marie-Ange, "as you are a skilled Domme for one so young. Soon-Ja Kim is both a licensed practical nurse and an acupuncturist. If you have a headache, or cramps, or anything like that, she can soothe your pain away in fifteen minutes with her magic needles. Of course, she can do the opposite as well. Soon-Ja Kim, proceed!" "Oui, sur le champ, ma Maîtresse." The Korean took a large leather case from a shelf, and carefully selected half-a-dozen long needles. She walked to the man, unshackled him from the Cross and stood him upright. He grunted with the pain of his released muscles and ravaged asshole. Seizing his cock, she drove a needle into the head and back along the top, then slid another far up his peehole. Reaching beneath, she ran one through his scrotum and between his testicles, back into his perineum and, Janet thought, probably into his prostate. He nearly collapsed in agony. "Now, come what may, he can't come," said Soon-Ja Kim, admiring her handiwork. She went to the rack and removed what seemed to be a large enema bag. Going to the water tap, she filled it with water. She attached the bag to a ring hanging from a chain set into the ceiling. She nodded to Xirelle, who wheeled over a large tub, like a washtub. Backing the man up to the tub, she bent him over and inserted the syringe from the enema bag and opened the valve. When the bag was empty and the man's abdomen extended to bursting, she turned him around and pulled the needle from the top of his cock. The man pissed copiously into the tub. Then Soon-Ja Kim jabbed the needle back whence it had come, turned the man around and, sitting him over the tub, sharply punched his abdomen. The water and shit exploded into the tub, with a noise like a firecracker. Soon-Ja Kim removed the weights and clamps, and the man squealed as the blood rushed back into the capillaries. "Now," said Maîtresse Marie-Ange, "show him your tattoo of an American victory, and we will show him another American tactic." Soon-Ja Kim unmasked the man, and Janet lifted her right leg to show her tattoo. The man's erection stiffened, flipping up involuntarily, a drop of precum flying onto Janet's cunt. "That's the closest you're ever going to get, shit!" she screamed, as she punched his stomach and chest. As he bent forward under the blows, she grabbed his scrotum and squeezed. The man tried to vomit around his gag and almost choked, until the gag was removed and he barfed on the floor. Janet threw him to the ground, and whipped him as, with manacled hands, he cleaned up his vomit and dropped it onto the tub. "My dear Janet," said Maîtresse Marie-Ange, "as you displayed the Sands of Iwo Jima, slightly revised, let us try the Sands of Abu Ghraib, likewise slightly revised." She dragged the man to his feet and thrust his head into the tub, drowning him in his own piss, shit and vomit. "Alas, we have no Qu'aran to read to him, but he can imagine." She hauled his head out, as he sputtered and tried to keep from swallowing the filth in the tub. Again and again she dipped his head, until the bell sounded. "Ah, Master John Thomas is here. How punctual he is!" Little Dicky was released, and lay exhausted, gasping, beside the tub. "Hose him down, we want him clean for Master John Thomas. He hates a filthy sub." Soon-Ja Kim removed the gag. "I like to hear him plead and beg and squeal," she said, smiling for the first time since Janet arrived. "My dear Janet," said Maîtresse Marie-Ange, "you are so young. Doubtless you do not know that the most brutal prison camp guards, both in the Second World War and the Korean War, were Koreans. And the war crimes and tortures perpetrated by the Koreans in Vietnam have never been fully chronicled. Soon-Ja Kim is a perfect slave, descendant of a brutal people. To have a black slave like Xirelle and a Korean slave like Soon-Ja Kim is a labor of a lifetime, but also a labor of love." And she kissed the Korean. Xirelle ushered in a large man, nearly six feet tall, broad-shouldered and muscular without being exaggerated. He had long, unkempt hair and a bushy beard. He kissed Maîtresse Marie-Ange's hand, slipped out of his sandals and jeans, and, wearing no underwear, rubbed his cock briskly. He set to work at once. Reaching for the lube, he covered his fingers and seized Little Dicky's shoulder. "No! Please no! Please please...." the cries died to a whimper as Master John Thomas, for it was he, spun Little Dicky around, bent him over, and thrust hard into his already violated anus. As he hauled out after his first stroke, Master John Thomas asked "And who has been beforehand, or should I say, beforecocked, with me?" "I did," answered Mistress Janet, "with ma Maîtresse's kind permission." "I wasn't quarreling," said Master John Thomas, "I only like to know who broke the trail I'm walking." And he returned to fucking Little Dicky with punishing strokes. Master John Thomas ejaculated with force and noise, grunting and growling. He pulled out abruptly. Little Dicky's cock was aflame, but he could not relieve the pressure. "Please, ma Maîtresse, please, help!" "I'm too kind-hearted, moi, generous to a fault," said Maîtresse Marie-Ange. Turning to Soon-Jan Kim, who was rubbing her clit frantically, "Soo-Ja Kim, when you've come, pull the plugs on this trash." Soon-Ja Kim orgasmed, gasping hard. She pulled the needles from Little Dicky. "Now you may come, you filthy stinking little queer faggot," said Maîtresse Marie-Ange. Little Dicky masturbated his penis with two quick flicks. A gout of cum flew across the room, followed by another, as he screamed, his face contorted and his body shaking. Two more large drops dripped from the tip of his quivering cock. "Lick up your filthy cum from my beautiful floor, suck Mistress Janet's tampon clean, and then get to Hell out of here!" He did.