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The House of Lesslie Ch. 01

By: gothicboibitch



I.

The mansion hadn't changed, not all that much, from how I remembered it. 

If at all, it had aged gracefully, as only English mansions can ¬ a massive Edwardian building that had served Lords and Ladies, had housed masters and servants for centuries. Around it, at a respectful distance, were smaller buildings that rose up from the moist English ground and lining the road to my right and left.

There had been a village here, once, so my mother had told me, but as my family's wealth and influence had grown, so had the mansion, until the grounds owned by the Leslies had simply swallowed up everything around them.

It was private property, now, all of it, starting at the iron gate we had passed almost three miles further down the road, walled in and separated from the world outside, just as my family had intended it to be.

I watched as it passed me by. My past. And my future. Sitting in the back of the Rolls Royce that had picked me up at Heathrow, finally allowed to smoke after over having been caged in the first class of a flight from Hong Kong, forced to find topics of conversation with those who had money, but no taste, influence but no class.

My family's money was old, and just like the mansion it built, it had aged gracefully, knowing its power and dominance. It had bought kings and queens, had fucked prime inisters and enslaved parliaments, had changed histories and people.

And was now mine, and mine alone.

That had changed.

The thick smoke from a small cigar rolled over my tongue as I sucked it in, let it stay there to savour its taste before I forced it down into myself, feeling it expand into my lung and lifting my breasts. It felt good. It felt right. To come home. To see that it had been waiting for me. To see that it was the way I remembered it.

The driver had changed. He was new. He was young. He was watching me, glances that were reflected in the Rolls's rearview mirror, watching me every now and then as I made the back of the car my own, dressed in a white fur coat that enclosed my body.

He didn't talk. Didn't try to make conversation. He was trained well, only responding when asked, the way any good servant should behave. But watching, yes, always watching. 

I had gotten used to it, over the past years.

To people watching me, I mean. That had also changed. As had my body. Feeling it now, it was a comfortable thing, especially when I dressed it up, as I always did. It had taken me ten years, for change doesn't come easy, nor should it.

A transformation like mine had taken experience, a lot of it, gathered in places far away from home. And perfection comes at a price, at least mine did. The breasts straining inside the slick, black latex catsuit that was encapsulating me and showed them off? 16,000 dollars. The nose that expelled thin streams of smoke escaping my body and filling the Rolls with its sweet, pungent smell? 4,000 dollars. The lips, now a perfect red shape that wrapped around the small, black cigar like it was a thin, tasty cock, clamping down on it and not letting it go, until the ember tip burned brightly between the rubber gloved hand that held it? 3,500 dollars.

The knowledge that all of this was making my driver's cock hard inside the uniform's pants? 

Priceless, my darlings.

Just priceless.

"Have you been in my mother's services long?" I asked him.

"Ma'am?"

"I don't remember you, darling, from the old days."

"No, Ma'am," he said. What a sweet boy he was. Still so nervous, and delightfully respectful. I would like this one, I could tell. "I have been hired by the mansion's major domus just recently."

"James?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

I smiled. 

"I am sure that was quite an experience," I said.

The driver flushed. Shame, embarrassment and lust, in just the right mixture, all of his emotions playing off each other. Yes. I would definitely like this one. 

I let him watch me slowly take my gloved hand up, opened my red lips for him and snaked out my tongue just enough to flick the cigar's end, giving him a better view of the steel that was piercing the tip of my tongue.

"You must tell me about it, one of these days," I told him.

"Yes, Ma'am," he said. The lust had won, I could tell. I smiled. Against shame and embarrassment, lust would always win.

"James doesn't just take anyone," I said, letting the words linger with the smoke that came with them, just as a cruel smile had come with them, turning my lips into a knowing sneer. "You should be proud, darling."

"I am aware of that, Ma'am."

"At all times."

"Yes, Ma'am."

I laughed quietly. No, not too many things had changed.

Except me, of course.

II.

James was the first in line, just as he was supposed to be, a mountain of muscles that could not be concealed, not completely, by the butler's uniform that showed off his position in my mother's household. Already in his fifties, his black marbled face had gathered some cracks and wrinkles, the perfectly shaved head from my memories now replaced by a distinguished stubble of white hair.

The crack I loved the most was the smile that split his fleshy lips open as the Rolls came to a halt, his walk still a show of strength and grace, an older panther, still on the prowl.

He opened the door for me, not without subservience, bowing down as I stepped out, my high heeled boots first, before I took his gloved hand, offered as a sign of help, not needed, but certainly appreciated. I snaked my body out of the back of the car, stretching it and looking at all that become mine.

The staff had been neatly placed to the left and right of the mansion's main doors, the maids all neatly dressed and at full attention, their postures rigid, their uniforms black and white and tight all over. There were a dozen of them, and their faces were turned down, their eyes firmly locked onto the ground.

I smiled.

The male staff was easy on the eye, most of them unknown to me, butlers and gardeners and handymen, more than enough to keep the household running smoothly at all times.

"Welcome home," said James as I let go of his hand and took a step forward. He had also turned his face down, waiting for me to give the permission to look at me.

I didn't.

"Your hand," I told him.

He knew what to do. James, with a bow, extended his hand to me, palms open and facing me, already expecting his first duty of the day, the first duty to me. Years of serving my mother had prepared him well.

I took a final drag off my cigar, letting it flow through my body once again, now mingling the smoke with the fresh and cold air of the early English morning, before I flicked the ash onto James' open hand, tainting the perfect black leather with my ash. With my exhale I crushed the cigar into his palm.

"You were expecting this," I said. 

My mother's manservant did not look up, did not close his hand around the extinguished cigar, remained perfectly still. Oh, how I had been waiting for this moment! For him to stand there before me, just like that. It had been on my mind, had been in my dreams for years, so many years that I could feel the tingling running down my spine.

James didn't answer.

"Look at me," I told him.

He looked up, and found a face unfamiliar. Too smooth, too perfect to resemble the one he had known. When he had been the one towering above me. And had been the one telling me what to do. 

When I had grown up here.

And had still been a boy.

"No, Ma'am," he said. "Not this. Not all of it."

"James," I said. "It's been ten years. People change"

"Your mother would have been proud, Ma'am."

I laughed. Ten years ago was when my mother had given me enough money to last a lifetime. Ten years ago she had given me everything I wanted. The means to find myself. To lose myself. To become a Lesslie in more than name and blood.

To become a Lesslie in spirit.

"Do you like?" I asked, laughingly.

"Ma'am, it is not my place -"

I lifted his face further up with one hand and slapped him across the cheek, suddenly and without mercy. He didn't move. Didn't flinch, even as my rubber-covered hand left a mark, turning his skin even darker than before. The first mark that was given to him by me, not by my mother. He didn't speak. Knew his place.

No wonder he had been my mother's favorite.

"I asked you a question," I said.

"You have become," he said, quietly.

"What?"

"What you always were," he said. "Your mother's daughter."

I touched James' chest, let my fingers travel down, black latex on top of white linen, a perfectly starched shirt, before reaching his pants, perfectly filled out and not hiding it, not anymore. Through the clothes, I could feel his shaft, thick and hardening, no longer curled up.

I had done this to him.

I let it go. 

"You do like," I said to him as I leaned in, my lips close to his ear, each word a whisper, a promise.

My fingers wrapped themselves around his shaft, through the layers of clothing, barriers between our bodies. Cupping his balls, I could feel it twitch again, and still, there was no movement, no expression in the hulking black man's face. I squeezed and pulled them down. There it was. A short gasp. An acceptance. A plea. It was what I had dreamed of. What I had fantasized about, all those years ago.

That short expression of pain.

"I may have use for you yet, old man," I whispered.

His lips parted in that cracked smile.

"Yes, Ma'am," he said.

I nodded towards the mansion's assembled staff.

"Tell them," I ordered James.

Without another word, I walked towards the mansion's doors, passing the rest of the staff. without further acknowledgement.

There would be time enough to get acquainted with them, later. They would learn to know me. Would learn to obey me, just as they had obeyed my mother. As so many others had learned to know their rightful place within the halls of this house, through the centuries and the generations that had filled it with screams of pain, moans of lusts and pleas of mercy.

Behind me, James told them.

That I was now Mistress of the Mansion.

III.

It had caught up with me in Hong Kong.

It had been a voice on the other end of an intercom, speaking in Mandarin. Outside my office, the grey skies rained down on a chaotic assembly of buildings, shacks and houses that no amount of water, no amount of god's loving piss could ever clean. The filth down in the streets, gathering in the alleys accepted it, nonetheless. 

I looked down on the city it inhabited. I looked down on them.

Crawling through the thing they called life. Obedient little things, they were, a trait that I had come to appreciate about the Chinese. They dared not look up. Dared not to dream themselves. Perfect, little bees. Buzzing in that strange language that could mean so many things.

Every now and then, for my own pleasure, I reached down onto those streets and decided to lift one of them up, to give one a glimpse of a life that was different. The voice on the other end of the intercom had been one of them. Had been living a low life, had been a boy, had been imperfect, before I saved him, turned him, made him not only a personal assistant.

"Mistress?" the voice said.

"What is it, Chan?" I replied. Even through the electronic distortion that made the voice a ghost in the machine, I could hear the apparent displeasure in my personal assistant's voice.

"There is a man here to see you. He knows your name."

"Everybody in Hong Kong knows my name. That is no reason to disturb me, Chan."

"Your real name, Mistress."

My real name. Now there was something that was reason enough to disturb me, in more ways than one. Men were not, not even powerful ones, of which I had become friends with, often quite intimately, over the years.

But they knew me in a different fashion. As their goddess, as their lover, as their mistress, and the name that had been spread throughout the streets of the city below, had only been whispered in the halls of politicians and businessmen, had been nothing more than a title.

The English Dragon, they called me.

I had never used my name, had never given them more than what they earned, what they deserved, that glimpse of the hell that I called my heaven.

My real name. 

"Send him in, Chan," I told the intercom.

The door to my office opened. But no man came in, although the person who did had been male once. In a manner of speaking. The Asian men were already femme more often than not, and Chan - even in his filthiest state, which was the state 

I had found him in - had already been an extraordinary specimen. 

But now, after months of treatment and training, after surgery that had given him perky tits that filled out little less than a C cup, Chan had grown into someone even more unique. 

She had been given a shape to fit her soul, and in turn had sworn to serve me. All in all, a mutually beneficial arrangement. A sister in spirit, a slave in body, Chan had exceeded all of my expectations, both inside the bed- and boardrooms we both shared. 

Chan wore her new body well, and had chosen a simple business outfit for today, with a white blouse, a black pencil skirt and matching jackets, with only a steel collar around her neck indicating her to be anything else than a professional woman.

That and her long fingernails, too long and too perfectly painted to do any type of typing, groomed and shaped for beauty and nothing else.

Her hair had been part of the creation I had made. Colored and cut in a punk, asymmetrical fashion, it created a waterfall of blue that rushed down her left cheek and obscured one of her piercing, green eyes.

I watched her walk. Watched how she stepped aside to introduce the man who had followed her, quietly and with the typical rigor of an Englishman.

I snapped my fingers.

Chan understood and opened the humidor on the side of my desk. Her slim fingers lifted my cigarette holder from the box. It was a beautiful heirloom, and one of the things I had never parted with, in all of my travels. 

Made from steel and silver, it was roughly six inches long and had a dragon furled up around it, emerald eyes that stared down its lengths as its tailed ran around its shaft, ending at the tip that would fit between my red lips. All the women in my family had owned one of these most rare of trinkets, and each time one of them had prepared for the traditional travels around the world, that woman's mother had gifted it to her daughter, to remind her of her status, her place in the world.

It was also the reason they called me the Dragon in this part of the world. Clients and friends, at least.

I lifted my hand and presented it to Chan, not giving that Englishman an inch of my attention. Never did like them to begin with. Lawyers, I mean. My delightful girl had already inserted a small cigar into the holder's shaft, and her attention to the ritual had been carefully honed, handing me the holder and placing it between my index and ring finger without me needing to give any further order.

And when I lifted the holder to my lips, Chan was already next to me, flicking open a thin lighter with her tender fingers and igniting a warm, yellow flame that hissed against the dark, flavored tobacco, transforming it creamy, cum-like smoke flowing down the holder's shaft and entering my mouth.

I took a deep breath and snap inhaled.

The lawyer watched. The lawyer licked his lips.

I thanked Chan by blowing smoke into her face, holding her chin up and forcing her mouth open, streaming my breath and smoke into her. She accepted it with closed eyes, her voice a thankful whimper.

"Thank you, darling," I said.

"Thank you, mistress."

"You may leave us alone now."

Chan averted her eyes from my gaze and quietly existed the office. 

I knew why the lawyer was here, of course. The fact that he had known my name, had dared to speak it out loud, had been more than a giveaway.

"It is time, then, is it?"

"I am afraid so, Lady Lesslie," the lawyer replied.

I turned away from him. It wasn't that he wasn't easy on the eyes, in that proper and pedantic way the purely bred Englishmen can be, with their slicked back hair and the slight growth of stubble on chins and cheeks that showed a long day's journey.

It was the news he would indubitably deliver to me, any moment now.

"Do you have the letter?" I asked him.

"Yes, Lady Lesslie."

I drew a long drag from my cigar and stopped before it filled my heart, letting it instead seep from my lips and against the office's window, rising up and curling in the air, like long-lost memories.

"Read it to me."

IV.

My mother's office was nothing like mine. Or anybody else's, for that matter. I had grown to prefer simplicity over the years, an art deco style that decorated the life of someone who had been on the road so long that there never had been too much time to accumulate possessions that could clutter up rooms.

But mother's office had always a miniaturized reflection of what the entire mansion was. Memories, caught in memorabilia, relics and reminders of generations that had sitting been on the throne still dominating the room.

It had been my mother's favorite. A monster made from darkened, polished wood and soft burgundy cushions that could let you drop your bottom into them, while your clawed fingers rested comfortably to each side on aged armrests that were shaped once again like our family's crest symbol, fiery dragon faces that growled silently at those who stood or knelt before you.

The rest of the office furniture was no match for the throne, and whether it was book shelves or guest chairs, all aged just as well as the throne itself, were like dwarves in comparison, almost shamefully hiding or hugging the room's walls.

It was still easy to see mother sitting here, my memories of her bigger than life and not so easily to bring to an end. It had been a car accident. Considering that mother had loved cars that were fast and furious, like she loved her lovers, that came hardly as a surprise.

Me, I preferred a driver.

Looking back on it, so should have mother.

I slipped out of my fur coat as I approached the heavy desk that stood between me and the throne behind it. No work had ever been done on it, at least not in any conventional sense. Its surface was polished dark wood, the most prominent features an ashtray in the shape of an opened mouth, its teeth being the perfect place to put down your cigar while resting, with the rest of the ashtray having been sculpted around it, resembling a blackened rubber face that had been encased, with no chance of escape, into the very desk itself.

I had always been my mother's daughter, I thought to myself as the simple sight of such marbled pain and sculpted ecstasy made my clit hard. Even when my body had not been this display of perfection and had been just a boy, the feeling of dominance had always been the ties that had bound us together, her and me.

Ties that were linked, all the way through the centuries and passed from mother to daughter and had brought pain to countless of servants by pleasuring their masters and mistresses. 

This was what she had left me.

This was what would be my inheritance.

I sat down on the throne and let my fingernails scratch ever so slightly across its armrests, imagining it to be the thickened skin of all those servants, waiting for their deserved pain. If I could have purred, I would have.

This was my home now.

My time to shine. Finally.

I silently thanked her. Mother, I thought, don't worry.

I will live up to those expectations.

V.

Mother's wishes had been quite detailed, written down on expensive paper, catalogued and listed and placed in a brown envelope that the English lawyer read to me after I had given him the permission to do so.

Still not looking at him, my voice a firm, strong sound that whipped through my Hong Kong office, I told him to "fucking raise your voice, you English cunt."


The House of Lesslie Ch. 01



"Dearest Tara," the lawyer read. "If you have received this, it means that you will be the last in the line of the Lesslies, and your time of freedom has come to an end. I have watched you grow, and I am rather pleased with the results that by far have exceeded your mother's expectations for you. Such depths of perversion that you have displayed in those past years gives me hope that our family's legacy may not merely live on, but reach new heights of decadence, and for giving me that hope, I thank you, my little dragon."

I didn't turn around. I didn't want that legal whore see that I had tears in my eyes. Never let them see you cry, that had been one of the first words of advice mother had given me.

"Continue," I ordered him.

"Enclosed with this letter, my beloved girl, you will find all the documents that officially make you the Mistress of Lesslie Mansion and gives you complete control over all the assets of our family. Use them in any manner you find pleasurable. All contracts, be it with the mansion's staff or with the employees of Lesslie Inc. are set to expire with my death, although I do hope you will continue to use those you will find useful."

The English cunt stopped himself.

"The relevant documents, Lady Lesslie," he said, "have been deposited with our law firm in London. This, obviously, also includes the services of the firm itself, also set to expire in three months time, unless -"

"Are you begging already?" I growled.

"Well, Lady Lesslie, you must see -"

"- I didn't ask for your opinion, cunt."

I let more smoke drift into my body and filling it with warmth. My years of freedom, coming to an end. I had responsibilities now. Not only to myself, but also to the empire mother and the others in my family had built. It was a frightening thought, if only for a moment, and released a cruelty that had been growing inside me, aching for a release.

I turned around and showed this cruelty to that begging, worthless worm in his Armani suit who had dared to interrupt those final moments between my mother and myself, already reduced to the emotionless reading of a letter, by asking me to continue his company's employment.

So, begging was what he wanted to do?

I would give him that chance.

And see how much the millions and millions of retainer fees that he and the others of his law offices collected every year to handle the Lesslie business was really worth to him.

"Beg," I told him.

"If you would like me to explain the exact nature of our services, Lady Lesslie, and how valuable our firm has been, how vital to your mother's businesses of the years, I could -" 

I moved fast. Three, four steps, faster than you should have been able to on high heels brought me right in front of that smug, English face before he could finish that sentence. And brought my gloved fingers around his throat, cutting off both air and arrogance.

I could feel his Adam's apple tighten around that crushing force.

I could feel him struggle.

It felt good. Especially that - whatever shape I had given myself - one thing about me still was completely male, that strength that would allow me to slowly crush his windpipe, if I were to choose.

He gasped. Not expecting this, was he?

"I am going to tell you what kind of services you and your company shall be allowed to provide for the House of Lesslie," I hissed into his ear. "Are we clear on that, whore? You will beg for me, if I so choose. Will lie, cheat and steal for me, if I demand it from you. You're a lawyer, aren't you? none of those things would come as too much of an embarrassment."

"Lady Lesslie -"

Still able to talk. Couldn't have that, could I? I snaked my fingers closer around his throat and squeezed harder. The throaty voice drowned in a gasp.

"You will also never address me as a Lady again," I hissed. "From this moment on, the proper way to talk to me is to name me your Mistress. Mistress Tara, if I allow you to. Are we clear on that, too?"

There was no reply, but I could see it in his watering eyes. That fear that I caused. A cruel smile played around my lips.

"You and your colleagues, all of them, will do exactly as I tell them, if I allow you to stay in my services."

"Yes," the lawyer managed to squeeze out.

I hit him hard, with the back of my other hand, snapping his worthless face to the side as flesh gave way to force. I might make him cry, I thought. The thought warmed me. It reached down past my heart and became heat that warmed my clit, making it harder. And the thought became wish, became desire. 

I would make him cry, I decided.

Would break him. And make that my first act as the heir to the House of Lesslie.

"Yes, what?" I hissed.

He understood.

"Yes, Mistress."

I released my choke on him, just enough for his eyes to stop bulging out of their sockets. Let him go completely after I savored that moment. He dropped to his knees, not out of submission, not quite yet, but it was a good start. His breath came in ragged, painful gasps. I loved hearing them.

"Good," I told him. "Anything I tell you, cunt. Remember that. And you will keep your suits and your expense accounts and the little filthy whores that you fuck while your girlfriend is waiting for you at home."

"Yes, Mistress."

I put the tip of my boots in front of the lawyer's face. Tested him without words. He glanced up at me, saw me taking a deep drag off my cigar as I titled my head back. Saw what was expected of him. And did it.

His tongue came out of his mouth slowly and wrapped itself around the tip of my boot. That was all I offered him, and he lapped against the shiny leather, not quite broken, not yet, but greedy, oh so greedy, I know that greed would make men and women do the most delightfully decadent things.

But there was still that defiance in his eyes. That arrogance that needed to be taken care of. I wondered if mother had chosen him specifically to come and bring her message to me, knowing that this one was still in dire need of training. Perhaps this was her final test for me.

And if it was, then I would pass it with flying colors.

I wished I had been outside on the streets before, maybe had stepped into some greasy dog shit that would have now stuck underneath the boot's tip, forcing this worthless, arrogant cocksucker to have it stuck between his lips, making them even more brown than they already were from kissing up to me.

Oh, he would taste more than just the leather, I swore to myself.

So much more.

"Chan!" I called out to the room next door and waited impatiently for my delightfully transformed lover to enter and take a look at what she had brought before me. It only took a second before she entered, saw and knew.

"Look at him," I told her. "Begging to keep his job, he is."

Chan's smile if it could be called that, was even more cruel than mine had been. I had trained her well, not merely to assist me in business matters but also in my personal tastes.

"Then he is not doing a very good job, Mistress," she said.

"No," I replied, smoke pouring from my nostrils, "he isn't, is he?"

I reached down and found that gel-filled hair, slick underneath my gloved fingers, but not slick enough to escape my harsh grip. When I pulled him up by his hair, he screamed. I loved that sound. 

"Not properly begging, are you, my dear?" I asked him.

"Please, Mistress," he gasped.

"Please?" I repeated.

"Please," he said. "Anything. We'll do anything that you ask. My company -"

"Your company is not who is here, filth," I spat out. "You are."

It took him a moment to realize. That is the thing about lawyers, my darlings. As opposed to what is generally known about them, they are not nearly as intelligent as they make themselves out to be, and a degree - while being able to take you far - is no substitute for intelligence. Write that down and remember.

"I will do anything."

I nodded silently at Chan. She knew my tastes, and even if I hadn't nodded, would have proceeded already. Her finger slowly unbuttoned her blouse, revealing a think, beautifully sculpted yellow-skinned body, with her breast cupped by a lace bra, not quite spilling out of it, but coming close to being released from that cage.

"Anything," I said and let that word drift in the silence of the room. "Really -"

I pushed his head against my crotch.

He didn't know. Not yet. What was expecting him, knew only what he thought was expected of him. 

But he would find out soon. Inside me, a hoarse laughter rose up, knowing what effect my true form has had on so many of my lovers.

"Open it," I told him. "Open my zipper, filth."

He tried to reach up with his hands, looking up at me with that delightfully fearful glance, mingled with just the right amount of defiance.

I slapped him again, even harder than before.

This time it opened his lips, a trickle of blood forming on them.

"Did I tell you to use your filthy hands on me?"

His gaze was one of confusion.

"Your teeth," I demanded. 

It was difficult for him, of course, wrapping his mouth around the zipper and trying to get it between his teeth, and I held him down right there, my hands a steel force on the top of his head, not allowing him to look up at me or the rest of my office.

I didn't want him to see. Didn't want him to know that Chan had stepped behind him, exposing that exquisite shape fully now and licking her lips at the sight that was unfolding in front of her. 

She was beautiful, an Asian fairy, now naked and waiting for me to give her the permission she craved. Between her legs was the thing I adored the most about her, long and slender and rising to the occasion. Slowly fondled between her sharpened fingernails, sliding up and down between her open palms, an engorged, gorgeous cock that had been inside myself, oh, so many times.

I could hear the lawyer, my lawyer, I owned the fucking faggot now, pulling down the zipper with his teeth, gnashing and growling as he did so, one zip at a time, popping open to reveal myself. 

"Oh god," he whispered.

It was not falling out, not really. In its natural state it may have, but this sight had hardened my own clit well enough that it unfurled and slipped out of its prison to appear in front of his mouth, a threat of things to come.

"Please, no," he protested, weakly. "I am not gay."

"Did I say I cared, filth?"

"Not that, please. Please, Mistress."

That... was my mushroomed head, thickened by lust and pierced through the piss slit with a metal ring that was only an inch or two before the Englishman's mouth, twitching and leaking at the thought of what it would do to him.

"Taste it," I ordered.

He flinched.

Chan smiled at me from behind him as she saw me take a drag of my cigar and ashing on the top of his head, quite deliberately. She knew what I would do, and was already in gleeful anticipation, her own cock glistening with spit and precum already. Oh, what fun this was going to be.

"I can always find another," I told the worthless filth kneeling in front of me. "Within your firm, most likely, I'm sure of that, because that's what you are, in the end, are you? Cocksuckers, all of you. Willing to take any fucking prick into your mouth and suck out the cream from it, for more money. That's no different from what you do day in and day out, filth. You suck, you fuck, you fuck others over, and I want you to get a fucking taste of it!"

Still, so much doubt. Greed, of course, will only take you so far. Right to your limits. And I wanted to push him far beyond those. I knew how.

I released myself. He would taste me, in one way or another, that I knew, and if it wasn't one way, then surely it would be the other. In my world, it made no difference to me. I would mark him.

It gushed from the tip of my cock, saved up and fueled by my morning coffee and a glass of water, dark and yellow and filthy, I sprayed it on his face. It had been a while since I had had such a delightful morning piss.

"I told you to taste it, you fucking cocksucker," 

I growled as it splashed on his cheeks before running down to his lips, closed and defiant. He would be, oh, how he would fucking beg. I pinched his nose, closed down his supply of air as he struggled against me, such a useless piece of shit that he was.

Until he had to open it, had to breathe, giving me that opportunity I had been craving and would not waste. My cock aimed directly between his open lips, the quiet, wordless begging in his eyes was what I had wanted to see, and there I got it, for the first but most certainly not for the last time.

Another stream of hot piss gushed into his mouth and filled it up quickly.

"Now, Chan," I ordered my lover. 

She showed no mercy. And was so much stronger than she appeared to be, my blue-haired golden girl. One step forward, and she had his ass stuck between her thighs, rubbing her engorged cock against the Englishman's ass cheeks, still protected by layers of expensive, Italian men's wear.

It was then that he screamed.

It was then that he realized what we would do to him.

That scream would quickly become a complex symphony of sobs and shouts, even curses, before he would beg. And he did beg. He begged us both. 

To not stop.

And we didn't.

VI.

"Mistress?"

I looked up from the desk, no longer lost in memories, as delightful as they were. James had come in, having taken care of the immediate business with the mansion's staff and waiting further instructions.

I nodded at him.

"The lawyers have called, Mistress," he told me. 

"Were they grateful, James?"

"Very much so, Mistress. Given the fact that you not only chose to keep the existing contract with them as they had hoped for, but also gave them legal supervision of your own businesses in Asia, as requested by your Vice President in Hong Kong, a lady named -"

"Chan," I said.

"Yes, Mistress." He raised an eyebrow. "Although they are admittedly somewhat worried by the apparent disappearance of their envoy who had been sent to Hong Kong to negotiate those contractual extensions with you. A young man named Finch, I believe."

"Was that his name?" I said. 

"I believe so," James replied.

"Never bothered to ask him," I said and smiled. "Wasn't much of a man to remember, I must say. And you know lawyers, James. One is as good as another."

"Yes, Mistress," James said. "It is merely a concern due to the fact that Mr. Finch had been scheduled to get married next week, and it is his fiancée who is worried about the lack of information concerning his whereabouts."

"Will this affect our relationship with the law firm?" I asked.

"No, Mistress."

"Then kindly tell Mr. Finch's fiancée that I couldn't care less about what her concerns are regarding her potential husbands choices, be they personal or professional."

"I will, Mistress."

"Is there anything else, James?"

"Not at the moment, Mistress."

"Then be a dear and call up Chan for me in Hong Kong. And tell her to send the shipment to our clients in Saudi Arabia first thing in the morning. Also tell her to make sure there won't be any problems with customs. Said shipment is quite valuable."

"Yes, Mistress."

It was as easy as that. A command by me, followed and carried out by everybody, without a moment of hesitation and doubt. That was what real power is, my darlings. Armies and politicians, they were just there for the show. But real power was what I had just ordered.

Somewhere in Hong Kong, Chan would execute this command. And the man who once had been a young Mr. Finch would be locked up in a crate, well-taken care of but chained for the rest of his life, on his way to a delightful Royal Prince's harem, to serve as a cocksucker. 

Anything, he had told me he would do, in order to keep his law firm in business. Anything at all. I laughed quietly. He had fetched a good price on the market. The Saudis liked them white and submissive, be they male or female. I thought it to be a fitting punishment for his attempt at defiance.

I took out one of mother's cigars and had James light it for me, relaxing and leaning back on the throne that was at the center of the House of Lesslie.

Mother would have been proud, I thought as I exhaled a thick, white stream of smoke. 

James was already on his way out as I stopped him.

"James?" I asked.

"Mistress?"

"Fetch me a drink, will you?"

"Yes, Mistress."

"Something fresh. French? California, or Australian. No, I know. Something Irish, maybe? Do we have Irish in the house?"

"We do, Mistress."

"Aged well?"

"22 years of age, Mistress. A full flavor, too, if you don't mind me saying."

"Tasted it yourself, did you?"

"Your mother allowed me a taste, yes, on numerous occasions."

"Then that is what I shall have."

"Yes, Mistress."

He bowed down to me, and I loved that, knowing that James had only ever bowed down to one other person in his entire life, and that had been mother. He left without another word.

I waited. I smoked.

It didn't take long.

One of the maids quietly opened the door to the office and entered, a silver tray in her hands, and on it, a single wine glass. It was empty. She approached with the right kind of reverence, a fiery, full waterfall of red hair that was barely tamed. A freckled face of fragile beauty, with blue, watery eyes that silently looked at me. 

She was Irish, all right. And looked younger than the 22 years of age James had claimed her to be. 

I would have to ask her name. Later. Not now.

"Do it," I ordered her.

With a nod, she took the wine glass in her hand and spread her legs in front of me. I smoked. And delighted in the performance that she was about to display. Her hands firmly holding the glass, she groaned ever so slightly, straining a little, very likely because she hadn't been expecting to be called up so soon before her new Mistress.

Then, finally, a thick, steaming torrent of piss was released from her opened and exposed cunt, quickly filling the glass, but unfocused enough so that the smaller streams that followed were slowing down to the sides of it, making the glass slick and wet as she handed it to me.

I loved the way it felt in my hands.

"Thank you, darling," I said quietly. And took my first sip of the day. It was pungent, both in taste and odor. James had been right. It was truly a full flavor that was passing my lips and expanded onto my tongue, 22 years old and tasting like it, too.

The second sip was stronger, longer and filled my mouth completely.

Then, licking my lips, I took a drag off my cigar and let the different tastes battle it out inside me, feeling wonderfully at peace, with my fate and myself. I rubbed my gloved hands between her cunt lips and licked some of the filthier droplets from my fingers. She didn't move. She waited. For my approval.

I gave it to her.

"It has one of the best tastes I have ever had the pleasure to sample, my dear," I said. "You should be proud of yourself. As I am proud of you."

"Thank you, Mistress," she whispered, her pride coming through in a slight, shy smile and her blue watery eyes shining a bit more brightly. "I am pleased to have pleased you."

"As you should be."

I took a longer swallow of her delightful piss. The full flavor, already there in my first samplings, now had grown to almost a perfect combination of golden delights, but backed by the unmistakable taste of female lust.

"What is your name?" I asked her.

"Caroline, my Mistress."

"Caroline?" I echoed. "Well, Caroline. I am Tara. You will address me as Mistress Tara. Are we clear on that?"

"Yes, Mistress."

There was no defiance in her eyes. Just pleasure. Acceptance. And lust. I was pleased to see that. And wondered how far she would go to please me. I was home. Finally. I would live up to its legacy.




The House of Lesslie Ch. 01



And I drank to that.



The House of Lesslie Ch. 02



I.

I woke up. 

Even after having taken over the House of Lesslie weeks ago, each morning was still the same, and came with the same feeling of disorientation, in need of a few moments to adjust to the realities around me, as new as they were.

The bedroom around me was still darkened by heavy, burgundy curtains that allowed only a sliver of the early morning's light into these old halls, waiting for the mansion's thick walls to be woken up by it, a caress much softer than what I would have preferred. 

Still, I woke up.

Stretching myself around the latex sheeting that had replaced mother's choice for beddings, which had been mostly satin and silk. She had always been such a traditionalist about certain things, I thought to myself in that moment, letting the warmth of the red rubber wash over me, showering my own naked body with its slick wetness. It moved around me like waves of blood, birthing me to the new day.

I preferred things that were industrial in their nature, as far removed from the natural order of things as possible. It was a preference gathered in my years of travel, and said preference was now slowly seeping into my immediate surroundings, little by little, day by day, transforming my family's home into my own and forcing the very fabric of the mansion to bow down to my force, bend to my will.

True dominance takes time and effort, and submission - whether it was by people or environments - would always and forever be a work in progress, never quite finished but always somewhat imperfect, thus waiting to be pushed beyond their natural boundaries.

The master bedroom was the first thing I had taken control of. While manners and methods of conducting your daily affairs in the mansion were of utmost importance in establishing your dominance over servants as well as over clients and business contacts, it was here in the bedroom that true decadence had to be asserted, where deviousness was born like a perpetually wet flower that took root in the very heart of the mansion itself, and then spread through the floors, grew on its walls and pushed its thorns of pain into the bodies of those living here.

It had taken me ten years to transform myself, but the time that it had taken for the first changes to take place in the Lesslie mansion had only been weeks. Perhaps not the busiest weeks of my life so far, but most certainly the most challenging.

The master bed had been reworked with great care by some of London's best industrial artists, and where once had been a wooden 17th century monstrosity of pillows, satin sheets and silk cushions was now a complex construct of hardened iron that had been drilled into the marble floor, penetrating mother's memory with cruel intentions and full intent to overpower her workings.

It was not that I didn't cherish those memories that had been forged here, in the decades she had ruled the House of Lesslie with her smooth touch and unforgiving cruelty.

I did cherish them, far too much, and in these moments, in the drift between sleep and waking, I feared I would drown in them and not return, if I let them come too close to my conscious mind.

After all, this was the room that birthed me.

Both as a boy named Sebastian, and then later again as what I would become, the shemale I had chosen to be, no longer held back by the confines of my natural body, no longer caged by how others saw me.

I allowed myself to fall into that feeling.

I allowed myself to slip back into sleep.

There was still so much to do, so many things to prepare.

II.

"Do you like your position here, darling?

I made it sound casual, not too much like an order while I placed my cigar between the teeth of the sculpted ashtray mouth on mother's desk, imagining it to feel the burn dripping down into a slave's throat, its sparks hissing as they went down.

I had drunk most of Caroline's cunt wine, with only a thin coating of it sloshing against the insides of my wine glass. It taste lingered in my mouth, its warmth filling my belly.

"I have no right - "

Caroline stopped herself, fearing to offend me.

"I am not my mother, Caroline."

"No, Mistress."

"Do you love me, Caroline?"

The gorgeous Irish girl trembled a little. It was not often that a slave, be it whore or maid, was asked this question. Most of them, they entered service willingly, and loved their shame and humiliation, never expecting, never daring to dream to be treated in any other way than filth. 

"I love you, Mistress," came the whispered reply.

"Did you love my mother?"

Caroline hesitated.

It was clear mother had not ever shown her this kind of intimacy, such care for her thoughts or emotions. I could see the Irish girl's thoughts racing, wondering what would be the proper etiquette, what might be the answer that would please her new goddess.

"I loved serving her needs, Mistress," she finally said.

"You are one of the mansion's piss whores, aren't you?"

"Yes, Mistress."

"How many of you do I own?"

"Your mother bought me at an auction, Mistress, together with five others."

"A collector's item, then, are you?"

"Yes, Mistress."

"Is it what you desired to be, darling?"

"I desired to find my place, Mistress."

"Don't we all, darling?" I thought about it for a moment, on this first day of my new duties, all of which would come crashing down on me soon enough and would not leave time for any kind of conversation, not until I had established myself in the ranks of those who had worshipped mother. I repeated, slightly more quiet and more to myself, "don't we all?"

There was a beautiful innocence in that girl in front of me.

Don't get me wrong, my darlings. Slaves are a dime a dozen, and those who entered the services of my family had often many reasons other than subservience to do so. If you wanted to disappear, from debt, from a scorned lover, from the world, the House of Lesslie was more than happy to provide you with that opportunity.

At a price, of course.

If you gave yourself to us, you would be cared for, would be given an opportunity of a life time, but for that, you would also have to be enslaved for a minimum contract of five years. There would be no questions asked, only orders given.

And so, this may have been the first time dear Caroline had been asked anything since she had entered the household. She reminded me of those I had lifted up in the years that now were behind me. 

"Present yourself to me," I said.

Without objection, without shame, Caroline began to let her body flow out of the maid's uniform, a ghostly white form of perfection given flesh, curved and strong and shuddering a little as the air touched and caressed it.

I took in that image, with an eye sharpened through experience, looking for the soul underneath the skin, trying to find any blemishes, and imperfection, for this would be my raw material, the canvas I'd use to build her, to make her a piece of art.

I walked over to Caroline, felt her skin underneath my fingertips, the smallest, simplest touches. She inhaled sharply, her mouth slightly opened, the inhale quickly becoming a hiss, then a low, guttural moan.

She could be useful, I thought to myself. I blew smoke on her hardened nipples, warming them to my touch that followed, slow and gentle, watching her whitened cunt lips becoming engorged by it, that simple display to her mistress, her piss slowly drying on the inside of her thighs as it was replaced by thicker, creamier juice that started to pour from inside her, enough of it to have my fingers scoop it up.

I brought it to my mouth and tasted it. It was flavored with salt, syrupy and mingled well with my saliva. Yes, she definitely could be useful.

"And what is the place you wish to be, darling?" I whispered into her ear as streams of smoke escaped my body and washed over our faces, a fog of lust that engulfed my little darling whore's eyes and mouth.

"Any place my mistress wishes me to be," Caroline replied.

I cupped her breasts from behind, my gloved fingers lifting them up, weighing them, as if my hands were a scale. It caused another small whimper that came out of the Irish girl's mouth, and despite her rigid posture, her training so far, she couldn't resist arching her head back and closing her eyes, just a little, her waterfall of hair falling into my face.

Without warning, I took one of her nipples between my thumb and forefinger and twisted it around. The guttural moan rose to a high pitched scream that started in her chest, lungs of air and lust, expelled through the pain.

I laughed quietly.

She still tried to maintain her posture, even as my other hand reached down from behind, found her ass and parted those cheeks, not once relenting, not once stopping to turn and twist that nipple, adding to her pain.

Sweat began to pour out of her, and with it, a smell of desire and deviance, running down her naked body and gathering in those holes and crevices that were my property.

I slid my fingers into her, slickening the rubber with her flowing cunt juices that quickly became white and frothy around the latexed black. Tears followed the sweat, single, quiet little rivers of pain that streamed down her cheek as her nipple remained locked in that cage of pain, sending signals through all of her nerves and telling her to move, to get away from me, to run, to escape.

And she didn't flinch.

She didn't speak.

What wonderful raw material to work from, I thought.

I could have chosen anyone, I knew. It was the randomness of this choice that surged through my own body, the knowledge of such power, to lift somebody up from their destined station in life or to drop them into the darkest depths of despair. 

Between my fingers, Caroline's filthy, sweaty shithole opened up, allowing me to enter her through her ring of flesh that otherwise would be a barrier, never meant to be broken or defiled, but now a willing ring of muscles and nerves.

There was barely any resistance as she opened up, opening her gates to her back and allowing me to discover her insides, a wet and delightful mess that had been stored there, full of rich, earthy flavor and wonderfully soft. My fingers buried themselves into her guts to dig it up, to feel it swirl around, to scoop it up.

Caroline moaned. Those yelps of pain, replaced by a deep, humming rhythm of gasps as she understood and found her own pleasure from it.

"Show me," I whispered to her as I added a second, a third digit into the depth of her guts, playing with the soft shit that met them, tried to drown them, wet and moist and ready to come out and play.

I withdrew from her, little soft specks of shit clinging to my latex fingers that were brown, chocolate smears of perfect quality.

I walked around her, leaving her gasping shithole open from my touches, from that wicked invasion that would be merely the first of many to follow. I wanted her to see this. To understand. And worship it.

Standing in front of her gasping, ghostly body, I presented Caroline with what I had found inside her, three fingers of soft, smelly shit.

"Please, Mistress," she whispered, ah, yes. Fear, for the first time.

"There is nothing here to be afraid of," I said in a calm voice, soothing her angst, "because there is nothing here that doesn't deserve worship, Caroline. Do you understand?"

"Mistress, I don't," she whimpered.

"Let me show you, darling," I said.

I took a single, deep drag from my cigar and kept it, caged it deep inside my own body, before presenting the shit-covered fingers to myself, sliding them between my lips and letting my tongue meet up with what Caroline had gifted me. 

It was soft, brown and tasted salty, with just a little hint of nuts as it burned itself into my taste buds, enticing and exciting me in anticipation.

"Mmmh," I whispered, releasing the smoke from within myself as my mouth swallowed up the brown smear, my fingers spreading it on my lips, mingling the taste with that of my lipstick.

Caroline's eyes were bulging. She had known, of course, that there were toilet whores in the mansion, trained, willing and lusting after those tastes, but to find her mistress to accept and willingly devour the waste of one of her lowest slaves - a slave whose name she had not even known hours earlier- made her already raw nerves send out a powerful signal of pleasure that exploded between her cunt lips, blinding her to everything else in the room, including me.

Clear and thick girl cum rushed past her cunt lips as she watched me delight in the taste of her shit, flaking on my lips as I slid my cigar past the brown stains and let the tip of it burn brightly, in deep orange and red, a glow that only seemed to be surpassed by the hellish spark she could see in my eyes.

"Oh.. god," she whimpered as the floods of her own hellish lust rushed through her to overwhelm any kind of decency that may have been still there, holding it all back, but no more. Her body expelled it, with such force that it gushed through her cunt and out of her body, squirts of depravity that made her legs tremble.

"All of you tastes good," I told her.

I leaned in and brought my lips to hers, looking for a sign of revulsion. But there was only acceptance, with our lips locking around gaping moths and tongues licking each other. And Caroline's body shuddered under the newfound sensation, newfound tastes, just as I had hoped, greedily lapping up that warm goo from my lips that had come from deep within herself.

Between us was now filth, shared.

I left it in her mouth, allowing a string of spit to connect us for a moment longer as I withdrew, like a shiny temporary chain that had been wrapped around her soul, before I wiped it off from my lips.

"Do you want to become?" I asked her.

"Like you, Mistress?" she whispered back, shivering at the thought.

"Is that something you aspired to, darling?"

I laughed.

"Is there cruelty in you, dear Caroline?"

"I don't..." she began. "I don't know, Mistress."

"Would you like for me to find out?" I lifted her chin and forced her to stare up at me, her goddess, her lover. The answer was a pain-filled, lustful hiss.

"Yesss."

"Then squat for me."

There was a moment of hesitation, quickly remedied by a kick against the inside of the Irish girl's calves, forcing her legs to re-adjust to a new stance, making her squat on the carpet in mother's former office.

I knew how I wanted to mark it as my territory, I thought. And knew I had found the right plaything to do so. There was always one, hidden amongst the ones flashier and bigger and louder, always one who had the potential to become a piece of art, if given the chance.

And here was hers. Let us see what she was made of, shall we?

"Do it," I said.

I let her squat there for a good minute or two, allowing her muscles to burn, that muscle burn to spread throughout her whole body as she strained, still unsure what exactly it was her new mistress wanted from her.

Then I clapped my hands, calling for James.

The mansion's major domus had been waiting outside, on the other side of the door, always close enough to hear my voice or respond to a command. And he entered quietly, that hulking man in his uniform, with barely a raised eyebrow at the display that was unfolding in front of him. 

Being mother's lover and favorite, he thought that he had seen it all, had partaken in most things that had happened in this office.

And that is why I wished for him to be here.

I wanted that particular audience.

To show how wrong he was.

"Fetch me a whip, James," I ordered. He nodded slightly and opened one of the office's cabinets. 

I knew, of course, where mother had stored her toys, but not only did I not wish to divide my attention between sweet, sweet Caroline and such a mundane task, I wished to show James what exactly had become of that 20-year old boy he had known prior to my wander years.

"The cat," I ordered him.

With another nod, his large hands took out one of the heaviest whips, a bushel of tight leather strips that hang down from a long grip shaped like an ebony, uncut cock. It looked small in those mighty hands, was not made for somebody his size to handle.

It was perfect for me.

I stared at the squatting Irish girl. Sweat had formed on that beautiful, ghostly skin of her, dripping down her body, gathering between her legs before falling down, droplet by droplet, onto the office's carpet.

It was some kind of Persian monstrosity, likely to have been in the family for generations and worth more on the open market than most slaves I had ever bought or sold through my underground network of clubs that I had established in the past five years, catering to the filthy and decadent.

It had been one of mother's favorites, and just like James, it would soon find out what place it had in the new order of things.

My lips, stained from sweet Caroline's filth, brown and purple, lipstick and shit, curled up to a cruel sneer.

Three minutes now, maybe four, and the cramps started to happen. The muscle burn had grown throughout her entire body, had set it alight, was burning it down to fiery ashes as the calves and thighs began to cramp out, releasing more pain into my sweet new whore's nervous system.

Caroline grunted. I reveled in that sound.

I opened my palm to James, not looking at him, demanding in silence. The ebony cock, made from wood and leather and other fine, fine things slid into the open palm, my fingers slowly closing around it as I felt my hand's power, its might, only moments away from my demonstration.

"Will that be all, Mistress?" James asked beside me.

"No, James," I said. "I wish for you to witness this."

The weight of the whip's handle was confirmation of my own position in this room, an affirmation of my violence, threatened and soon to be realized.

With merely a flick of my wrist, the cat lashed out, whooshed through the air, its leather strings picking up speed to find their target, sweet Caroline's breasts, already shaking from the strain I had put her under.

The leather connected with a harsh sound, a violent caress that created a blinding ball of fire spreading outwards from those points on Caroline's body it had touched, leaving behind reddening flesh.

"Owwww!" Caroline screamed.

The leather returned to me, cutting once again through the air as I listened to the symphony of pain I had caused.

"Did mother ever treat you like this, darling?"

Another flick of the wrist, followed by the almost penetrating sound of flesh accepting punishment. Caroline, for all that pain, did not leave her position, still squatting.

But she screamed. Oh dear god, yes, how she wonderfully she screamed.

And each scream ended in a sob, and each sob in a whimper and a guttural moan.

"Ngh!" Caroline sobbed as the whip hit her body a third time, leaving strips of reddened flesh across her chest and belly, her breath ragged and in shortened gasps.

My voice rose up from inside me, hardened and cutting through the air with just as much viciousness as the whip prior.

"Did mother ever give you that much attention?" I asked.

"Ngh!" Caroline sobbed, before that moan formed a single, strained word, flowing out from her lips, not only affirmation but a depraved kind of glee that she found in my treatment of her. Yes, she was going to be worthy of my attention, all right.

"No."

Another whoosh of leather pain stripped the truth from Caroline's body, lash by lash, coming in gasps between painful breaths.

"But you believe you deserved it, didn't you?"

"Ngh!"

"Say it, darling."

"Yes!" Caroline shouted, that anger released into that one shout, exposing now not only her body, her cunt and ass to me, but baring her soul. "Yes! Yes! Yes!"

"Watch this, James," I whispered to the major domus at my side. 




The House of Lesslie Ch. 02



"Show how much my mother is worth to you," I snapped at Caroline. "How much more you love me for giving you what you crave! What you need! Show me that you are worthy of that attention!"

I stepped over to the squatting Irish girl, still not changing her position, although her thighs and calves had to be killing her by now, all of her body aching for that release, that pain turning to pleasure, surging through her insides and making her lose control, finally. This is what I wanted James to see. What I wanted him to hear.

"Defile her for me, darling," I said to Caroline.

And there it happened. That loss of control culminating in her cunt releasing it first, a gushing, honey colored stream of piss that squirted with full force on the expensive rug as she pissed on those who had never seen her as anything but a piss whore, as somebody worthy only to give glasses full of herself, but never worthy of more.

Good! I smiled to myself. 

"Piss on her, Caroline," I said and lifted her chin up with my gloved hand, made her gaze into my eyes, filled with loving cruelty I was willing to share, to teach, to give and receive. "Piss on that filthy whore who has stopped you from becoming!"

"Mistress!" gasped James behind us, shocked by such a display of dishonoring the past and its legacy. I laughed. I laughed louder and harder than ever before. This was mine now, and Caroline's hot, gushing stream of golden piss washed away those memories of the past, flooding it with the depravities of the future.

"Shit!" Caroline screamed as the rest of her body felt the loss of control, and there I saw it, the same spark I had seen every now and then in other women's faces, that cruelty, now no longer buried and locked deep inside their souls, but free to roam. She became worthy of being a companion to me, more than a pet, but a bitch in her own right.

"Shit!" she shouted. "Oh god! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"

"Don't hold back!" I said, my eyes gleaming, my face beaming with joy.

And from her already filthy shit hole, it emerged, proper and slowly, with each new grunt. 

A darkened thing, hard and like a thick black cock that slowly snaked its way out of her inside, out of her guts and forming a long turd that slowly dripped out of her.

It hung there, with Caroline's ass muscles clamping down on it, not quite ready to release it, her anal cunt squeezing it with all of its might as a long, violent cum started to shake her body, as her belly and pussy were burning with its might.

An obscene cock of shit that was briefly sucked back into her already shaking and shivering body, the scream now completely turned into an outburst of cruel pleasure, a display given for her and me. I smeared some of her earlier shit across her face and kissed it from her white flesh.

"Shit! Shit! Shit" she screamed and released her tight grip on the shit cock that dropped onto the carpet, her final throes of her orgasm making her lose control of her calves and thighs. 

Panting, she dropped on her knees in front of me.

Her ass touching the brown, beautiful mess she had made on mother's carpet, squashing it with her squirming butt cunt, reveling in its warmth as she purposefully spread its stain on the rug.

"Thank you," she panted. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

"It was nothing, my sweet Caroline," I whispered to her.

I lied, of course. It was everything. I lifted her up, gently, and pulled her close, the aftershocks of such a violent cum still holding her body in its grip, one wave after another, each one a little less intense than the one prior.

Until she cried in my arms, tears of joy and exhaustion. I knelt down in front of her and held her tight, my hands running through that red waterfall of hair, now matted and sweaty, little curls that fell into her face as she cried on my shoulder.

I lifted her up with my, made her rise.

Made her my companion.

The soft flakes of her rich, warm and earthy shit dropped from her thighs down to the ground, further soiling my own past and giving way to a new beginning.

This is what I had wanted James to see.

The black mass of muscles that stood behind us was quiet, marveling at such a display, but knowing that he had seen nothing yet. Oh, yes, I wanted to prove it to him. That I not only was an heir to his lover and mistress, that not only this mansion and all of its deviance was my birthright, but that I would lead it to a darker future than thought possible.

That would be my legacy, then, I thought, amused.

"Clean it up, James," I told him as I led a very naked and very satisfied Caroline past him, briefly giving my attention to his hardened cock that strained against the insides of his uniform's pants.

"You can use the male toilet slaves to do it," I told him as we stopped at his side, my smile ever crueler than before while I stroked Caroline's cheek.

"Unless, of course," I whispered to him, "you would like to do the duties yourself."

My laughter followed me out of the office, only looking back once to see James kneeling on the rug, his body on all fours, sniffing at the gooey goodness Caroline and I had left on mother's Persian monstrosity, a heap of cum spray, piss and shit that was evidence of the fact that a new monster had taken hold of all things here.

And that monster was me.

James began to scoop it up. And smeared it on his black, fleshy face, trying to worship me in the only way I allowed him for the time being. I laughed at him. His lips parted, his tongue slipped out to catch that taste, to swallow it up and digest it.

I laughed. And so did Caroline.

I would change her.

I would transform her.

And I looked forward to it.

III.

It had not taken too long, that change.

Some require months of training, some will never outgrow their station in life, but Caroline had been a quick study. A student of such wicked delights that it surprised even me. There had been others before her, of course, and there surely would be others after, but in all of my travels, only one had come even close to the levels of debauchery sweet, sweet Caroline seemed to be capable of.

And I tried to not think about that one too much.

IV.

I woke up again. Still sleepy and content, but now also more fully aware of my surroundings. Had it only been weeks? It felt longer, that time, and each new day, although filled with depravity and decadence, also had given me more than my fair share of work as I had begun to tighten the reigns in and outside the mansion.

Thankfully, I didn't have to do it alone.

She was the end of the bed, curled up like a sleeping cat, that companion I had chosen to change, to transform. And how much she had changed! How beautifully filthy she had become! Around her neck was a steel collar, spiked metal that would prick her delicate throat at the slightest touch, that would signal my desire for her at the slightest tug on the steel that led from her collar to my hand, chain links wrapped around my fingers, even in sleep, never letting her go.

The darkened bedroom made her shape a shadow among others, but knowing that she was there filled my mind and heart with perverted pleasure.

Oh, yes. How much she had changed!

V.

It had begun with a shopping trip, as all women know. What else?

It is shopping that fashions us, makes us, allows us to be who were are, deep inside, giving an expression to our souls, shaped in clothes and ornaments and accessories.

And so, with a trip down to London I began the transformation of Caroline.

It was on my second day with her when I had told her. What we would do that day. And the day after that. And the day after that. Her skin was a canvas, her soul a diamond in the rough, waiting for me to be shaped and given form.

"Am I not pleasing enough for you, Mistress?" Caroline asked.

"You are a pleasure, my darling," I said. "But not pleasing. Not as much as you can be. And not nearly as much as you will be."

Caroline raised an eyebrow, not quite following.

But she would know, soon enough. 

"Besides," I told her. "You have outgrown that maid uniform now, haven't you?"

She beamed, proudly.

"Yes, Mistress."

"See?" I said. "And that means you will need new clothes. And, oh well, a new everything, really."

"Will you change me, Mistress?"

"I will, my darling."

"Change me into what?"

I laughed softly.

"Anything I wish you to be, my darling."

I called up James to arrange for everything. He knew the right places, had dealt with the right people. Experience was a commodity not easily traded, I thought. One of those days, and soon, I would have to express my gratitude, for oh so many things, but that day I wanted to celebrate and cherish.

And so I left it there, alone, in some darkened future, for me to arrive later.

It also pleased me to make him wait. And suffer. And anger him every now and then, for that would make that day so much better, perhaps even painfully so.

After an hour, numerous phone calls and some threats to the lives and wellbeing of various business partners' families, all had been put into motion, he informed me with his dark, somewhat disappointed sounding timbre.

"I have booked you and... your pet the penthouse suite at the Carlton," he said. "All things you have asked for have been delivered, Mistress."

"Thanks, dear," I said, giving him just enough of my attention to make him feel that it would never be enough, that he would never be to me what he had been to mother. 

Outside, the Rolls was waiting for us, and in it, the driver who had picked me up from the airport yesterday. Andrew, his name was. Andrew Stanton. Andy, to his friends, he would later tell me. 

He was waiting at the side of the car, its doors already opened, a warm, moving cage for an early winter's journey, and most appreciated.

It had gotten colder. Had yesterday been covered with frost but still remembering the days of summer's glory, dying far too slowly, this morning was a promise for a harshness that would soon take a hold in all of England. It was a strict mistress, England's weather was, and I greeted it as my sister, kissing the air with my breath, gifting it my body's warmth as sacrifice, in exchange for a biting cold that filled me and my soul.

"Did I anger Master James, Mistress?" Caroline asked behind me.

"He is not your master, darling," I told her, without turning around. "None of those here in the mansion will have any kind of control over you anymore. None but me and only me."

"Thank you, Mistress."

"But yes," I said. "You have angered him."

"Why, Mistress?"

"You are a sign of things to come, darling."

"A sign?"

"It's why I chose you. Now, hush. Get in the car."

Andrew helped her into the back of the Rolls, nodding and bowing down to her after having listened intently to our conversation. I followed, not needing any help of his and releasing him from that particular duty by a nod of my own.

Inside, Caroline had spread her body onto the back of the couch-like seats, a child of joy, exploring the surroundings, the little bar and its crystal glasses, having never partaken in this kind of luxury before.

"Do you like?" I asked her.

"Oh, Mistress," she beamed. "I love!"

"Good. After all, you'll be here with me for the next three hours, until we reach London. Could have taken the helicopter, of course, us. But here is lesson one. If it is worth doing, darling, then it is worth doing in style."

Caroline nodded, slowly.

"And being holed up for half an hour in the back of a helicopter," I added, "is hardly a proper means of transportation for a bitch goddess, wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes, Mistress."

"And I am sure we will find ways to pass the time, you and me."

I winked and turned my attention to Andrew.

"Drive," I said.

Three hours. That was a good, long drive.

And plenty of things to do to pass the time.

"As for James," I said, loudly enough to ensure the driver would be able to follow, "he is angered and jealous, yes, but I am sure he will find somebody else to take it out on. Isn't that right, Andrew?"

"Mistress?" came the reply from the front of the car.

"Didn't I tell you yesterday, Andrew?" I laughed. "That I would want to hear all about it? We have three hours, her and me. And I am sure you have a delightful story to tell how you became a faggot whore for nigger cock."

Caroline's eyes widened as she heard this.

"Oh, come now, darling," I said. "You must have known that James loves to fuck filthy ass cunts, and that he likes to indulge himself almost as much as I do."

I let my hand slide into the cigar box next to the bar in the Rolls' back, crushing the tobacco leafs slowly between my fingers as I rolled it back and between them.

"Entertain us, Andrew," I said, finding the lighter and letting its flame flicker around the cigar's tip, greedily sucking in the first fresh wave of smoke.

"Yes!" Caroline exclaimed excitedly. "Entertain us!"

I had dressed appropriately, of course, and by that I mean that I had dressed in such a fashion that would allow me and Caroline to have easy access to the most precious of her and my belongings. I had chosen a strict pencil skirt that hugged my thighs tightly, with a black leather corset, thickened and tightened by an array of metal buckles that made breathing delightfully hard to do, with my breasts spilling over its trim and into a simple white blouse.

On my head, carefully positioned, a fur hat with a lace veil that covered my eyes and let me see the world in front of me through a dozen beautifully structured bars, immediately reminding myself of the fact that we all - in our own little ways - were prisoners of some sort, and that thought made my girl cock harden with joy.

I slid up my pencil skirt to reveal it to the others in the luxurious car, just as we passed through the main gates and left for the motorway.

It rose up from the darkened hole between my legs, a white snake searching for something to play with, only to be met by the strong grip of my own hand, pulling it forward further and revealing its head, a monstrous shape that crept from its protective skin and blindly surveyed the world around it, its fangs my steel piercing that tingled as the skin left it free and open.

It wasn't hard. Not yet.

"There is nobody in this car," I said between drags off my cigar, a dragon's smelly, filthy breath coming from deep within me, "who doesn't love cocks. Isn't that right, Andrew?"

"Yes, Mistress," came his reply.

"And if you entertain us well enough," I said, "you might even get a raise out of it."

That laughter, cruel and confident, now came from Caroline. Yes! It was of her own depravity, of her own making, that cruelty that would humiliate others now.

"A raise out of your Mistress's cock," she said. "What could be an incentive better than that, for a faggot whore like you?"

I had dressed her as well, in more simple clothes, not yet ready to accept the glamour I soon would gift her. She did adhere to the dress code of my liking, though, her hands covered by short leather gloves, a shirt of the deepest black, with a black tie and matching black pants. I had ordered her to slick back her hair, which was now shaped in a 1930s style, still too long for my tastes, but giving her a more androgynous look.

Her hands reached out to my cock and were wrapped around my own, working it with slow, easy strokes that made me moan as my lips clamped down on the cigar between my lips.

"Was this what you did to him?" she asked cruelly. "Did you have your hands around his fat nigger cock?"

In the front of the Rolls, watching our lewd display through the car's rearview, Andrew squirmed and blushed slightly, although it was not clear whether it was from being embarrassed or aroused. Whatever it was, it sure made him uncomfortable, I thought giddily.

"Answer her!" I snarled at him.

"Or did you do this?" Caroline asked, before she leaned down and slipped the mouth between her stroking fingers, sliding it across the piercing that divided my piss slit, wetting it with the tip of her longue. I hadn't cleaned it. It stank of filth and raunch and my morning piss.

"Mmmmh", moaned Caroline. "Cocks are best when they're filthy, aren't they? Wouldn't want to suck a dick that has been cleaned, myself."

"Answer her, faggot!" I snarled at Andrew again.

"Yes –" whispered Andrew. "He made me suck his filthy cock, Mistress."

"Tell us," I demanded.

I myself had been witness to James' animalistic appetites, once having him watched with mother, but I had never seen how he treated the male filth. Something, I thought as Caroline's tongue started to drip fat globs of spit on my hardened girl cock, I would have to put on my bucket list.

Each of my moans made me clamp down harder on my cigar, each breath took in more smoke that burned down in my body. 

"Tell us exactly how you have become a nigger cock worshipping faggot, bitch."

VI.

"I was unemployed, Mistress," Andrew said, swallowing his pride as he began his story. "Half a year, nothing in sight. You know how it is, these days."

I laughed harshly.

"Can't say I do, whore," I snarled. "Continue."

Sweet Caroline took it as a sign that her cock sucking was pleasing to me, and it was, it was experienced and possessed the right level of harshness, alternating between slow tongue-washing and allowing herself to have my thickened clit disappear deeply into her throat. I pushed her head down further on my engorged, pierced shaft, a throaty sound escaping my own throat that rattled through my teeth.

But the order was given to Andrew, who spoke in hushed, embarrassed tones.

"I had no choice," he said.

"We all have a choice, whore," I said, before adding to Caroline, "Isn't that right, my darling bitch?"

"Mmmh," mumbled Caroline, my cock in her mouth allowing nothing more, but the vigor of her sucking increased.

"Good bitch," I told her. "Good bitch, yes, bathe my cock in your fucking mouth, bite down on it, you filthy whore, yes, give your mistress some fucking pain!"

Caroline moved her head back, let my cock slide out of her throat, cupped by her tongue and grasped the pierced crown with her teeth, biting down on hard metal and slowly moving back her head, stretching my piss hole. Electric shocks of decadent pain shot through my shaft.

"Yessss!" I hissed. "Give it to me, bitch! Show that you understand fucking cruelty! Fuck, yes! Harder! Pull on it harder!"

In the front of the car, Andrew swallowed.

"You wish you were here, don't you, faggot? To worship a cock with your mouth, that's why you came into my employ! To feel it fill your worthless cunt mouth, fill it with my spray of piss and cum, right?"

"Yes," came a whispered reply.

"I knew it!" I snarled. "Once you've had cock, you want it all the fucking time! Especially if your first taste of it was big and black, and packs a gallon of cock milk, right? Did he flood your mouth, my darling James, did he make you choke on his thick black cock milk?"

We had in the meantime reached the motorway, and Andrew, somewhat preoccupied with what was going on behind his back, still managed to drive the Rolls at a leisurely pace, I had to give him that. Seeing his eyes in the rearview glazing over with lust, I wasn't sure I would have been able to do that.

"Did he stretch your filthy shit cunt, whore?" I demanded to know. "Did he make it loose and filled it up with himself, so deep that you thought your bowels would burst?"

"Yes... Mistress," Andrew replied.

"Must be hard," I said, knowing that the mere memory of this experience had made him exactly that, "to come back to the wife after that?"

In my lap, Caroline stopped worshipping my cock, opening her mouth in disbelief, little strings of my cock juice and her saliva pouring down from her lips.




The House of Lesslie Ch. 02



"Oh, didn't I mention it?" I laughed, reveling in my driver's humiliation. "Our little cocksucker is a married one, dear Caroline! I read it in his files. Married for two years, surely to a nice Missus who wonders why her husband's mouth tastes like shit and cock every day he comes home to her!"

"That's beautiful," whispered Caroline, thinking about the sheer depravity of it. 

"Isn't it, though?" I smiled between two smoke-filled breaths, taking turns with Caroline in keeping my cock clit hard by stroking it.

"She doesn't know, Mistress," Andrew whispered. "Please, don't –"

"It's hardly fair to her," I said. "Now, is it? She should watch you, and perhaps that is what I will do to her. Make her watch her cocklapping dog of a husband scream with painful pleasure as his cunt bowels gets ripped apart by a filthy nigger cock. I'm sure James would love that. Wonder why he hasn't done it, already."

"He and I have –"

"– a what?" I asked. "An understanding? A deal?"

I laughed.

"He is my whore," I told Andrew. "He may own your shithole, but I own his. I haven't used it yet, but I will, and he will scream, Andrew. He will fucking scream for thinking that he is entitled to make such a deal with you. Now, stop."

"Mistress?"

"Stop the car. Pull over."

"We are on the motorway, Mistress."

"I know," laughed. "It wouldn't that much of an embarrassment, if what is going to follow were to happen in any kind of privacy, now, would it? There! There is a good spot, faggot, right there."

The spot was to the side of the motorway, underneath one of the signs and making sure that the Rolls and everything that would happen was going to be recorded by the police. Oh, how a mistress liked me loved Big Brother! So many would be my audience, and who knew? Perhaps it would even make it to the news! 

Andrew stopped the Rolls at right spot.

"How did it feel, whore?" I asked him. "When your shit cunt stretched around James' cock? Hm? I bet it felt like it was an entire fist burrowing deep into you. Bet that is what you thought, eh?"

I leaned down to Caroline.

"But I bet he has no idea what it would really feel like, darling."

Caroline understood. Caroline smiled. 

"No, Mistress," she said.

"Want to do the honors?"

"Oh god, yes," she whispered, her eyes fierce and furious, her breath ragged and shallow. "May I?"

"Show him," I said to her.

VII.

"Get out," I ordered Andrew.

His eyes had widened at the idea of what I had just suggested. 

"Can't leave the audience waiting," I laughed at the cameras outside, their black electronic eyes staring down at the car. Somebody somewhere was very likely wondering what the fuck would be the reason for stopping such a car right beside the motorway.

I giggled quietly. 

"Get! The! Fuck! Out!" I shouted.

Andrew submitted, opening the driver's door and walking to the back, opening the doors for both Caroline and me. We stepped out into the day. I saw that – despite all of his huffing and puffing – Andrew's cock had visibly hardened at the thought. Yes, I said to myself, I would definitely have to make his wife watch.

I dropped the remains of my cigar. I nodded at Caroline.

"The trunk," I said. "Fetch them for me, will you?"

Caroline nodded. She knew what I was talking about, for she had helped pack them into the huge assortment of suitcases and boxes we had taken with us. 

They were made out of leather, with their lengths adjustable to your needs, and they were sturdy and would suffice for what I had in mind. Andrew waited obediently at the side of the car, every now and then a nervous glance directed at the cameras.

The straps would fit well around his wrist, the chains would make a perfect fit for the mirrors on each side of the Rolls.

"Strip!" I ordered him. "Get off that fucking uniform and present yourself!"

He was so wonderfully ashamed as he took off the uniform, nervously glancing at the cars that passed us by, trying to cup his cock and balls with his hands, trying to hide the fact that his shaft was ever hardening through the humiliation.

"Is that how he treated you?" I asked Andrew. "What you are trying to hide from your wife, the fact that you are a wonderful whore?"

"Yes," Andrew admitted weakly.

"Well, whore," I said. "I don't believe in secrets. Only openness. And you love her, your wife, don't you?"

"I do, Mistress."

"But you love cock even more, don't you?"

"No, Mistress, I –"

"No," I said. "No, that's not what you love. Not cock, no, you love to be put in your place. You always loved that, right? You love that you are a whore, and it doesn't matter who you serve, but I bet -"

I interrupted myself to silently give the order to Caroline. Her fragile frame had appeared behind Andrew and now had clawed her hand into his hair, pulling it back and his head with it, making him scream.

"Aaaaaaaaaaaah!"

His hands flew up in an attempt to defend himself, but to no avail. Every move only resulted in his hair being pulled harder, his screams becoming louder.

And his cock thickening with lust.

Caroline snapped the chains around his first wrist, allowing him to struggle a little bit, then pushing her feet against the insides of his calves, making him lose balance. 

Oh, how delightfully wicked she had become after only one day with me! How quick of a study she had been!

"Aaaaaah," he screamed. "Oh god, please –"

The second wrist was chained much quicker, much faster, with both of the leather straps now in Caroline's hands, her pulling his arms behind his back, then pushing her boot into his back, forcing the faggot whore down on the dirty and moist tarmac.

He raised his head towards me, a silent plea in his eyes.

"I bet," I said, "that deep inside you, you wish for her to see you like this, isn't that right? A whore for anyone to see?"

"Oh god," Andrew panted in pain. "Oh god. Oh god."

"Smile, faggot," I laughed. "You're about to become a YouTube sensation."

I had pulled out my smart phone and started recording my driver's plight, making sure that despite or rather because of the pain his erection had become so thick that there shouldn't be any blood at all left for his big head, all of it rushing down to the little one, angrily pointing at the tarmac and wiggling around as Andrew thrashed in the steel grip provided by my delightful Caroline.

I put the tip of my boot against it, lifting it up for everyone to see, to the soundtrack of my harsh laughter. Oh, what would his wife do when she found out? I wondered. I hoped. That somewhere inside her she had always known. And that she would delight in the prospect of joining her husband.

"Don't you wish it would be her?" I asked him as my leather-clad foot started rubbing the underside of his shaft, making it twitch. He didn't answer. Not right away. A nod to Caroline provided an incentive. She pulled. The scream that followed from having his arms pulled back even further, with her boot pressing down on his back, her high heels drilling into his soft flesh, was even louder than before.

"Yes!" Andrew screamed, tears welling up in his eyes. "Yes, I want it to be her!"

My smart phone recorded his confession. His breaking point and then some. His eyes, staring at what he knew would be his wife at some point. Wanting. Needing. Being afraid of it.

"Why," I said, "that wasn't too painful to admit, now, was it?"

I nodded to Caroline. Andrew now understood. He pleaded, begged, wanted, needed, oh, there is nothing more beautiful than all those conflicting urges play out on a slave whore's face!

"I mean," I said to Caroline, "that really wasn't that painful at all, right?"

She snarled a laughter. And dug her high heel deeper into his back, making our faggot driver yelp like a beaten dog.

"This is what he really is," I said into the smart phone's camera eye, talking to a wife that I had not yet met and already had humiliated more than ever before. "Just a whore, darling! That is how he wishes you to treat him. And you want to, don't you? You have thought about it, right? Oh, I bet you have. I bet you are watching this, clawing into your cunt right now. Wishing you were here. With us. And him."

I let Caroline secure the leather straps to the side view mirrors of the Rolls, making sure not a single second of our delightful show would be missed, allowing Andrew's wife to get a full view of her husband's slave whore worshipping skills.

On a tarmac of a motorway, his arms pulled back so far that his shoulders were just about to pop out of his shoulders, his cock so hard it would hurt just touching it.

And his ass cunt ready for the taking.

"Let me show you how exactly your husband loves," I said to the camera.

"Fist his cunt," I ordered Caroline, giving her the order she had already been craving for. "Show his wife and show his nigger lover how exactly a male cunt can get fucked by a woman."

"With pleasure, Mistress," Caroline said, getting into position and using one of her gloved hands to push him forward, further putting weight and strain on his shoulders and joints, as her other hand started spreading his male shithole, delightfully hairy and now wet with fearful sweat.

"God," he groaned as her fingers started to touch all around his tightened rosebud, his shit cunt muscles. There was no invasion, not yet, only a rub that would prepare him for the taking. 

"He's so fucking wet, Mistress," exclaimed Caroline proudly. "He's a fucking whore for pain! I wonder how often he slides a rubber cock in that filthy, wet shit hole when he's sure he's alone." 

I lifted Andrew's face towards the camera, forcing him to look at me. At it. At his wife he knew would be watching, while Caroline probed his cunt, slid the first finger deeper inside, his shit muscles relaxing around it, sucking it in, despite the pain, oh that wonderful pain that had made his ass wet and slick.

"Have you done that, whore?" I asked him. Sure to record his answer. "Have you hidden it from her? When she was away? And you were alone? In the bathroom perhaps? Backed up against the wall? Sliding a rubber cock into your shit-filled faggot ass?"

Andrew mumbled something.

I ordered him to fucking speak up.

"Yes!" he whined. "I've fucked myself!"

"Oh, yes!" I snarled happily, before telling to Caroline, "that confession surely deserves more than one finger, don't you agree, darling?"

As a reply, Caroline shoved in a second.

"Gaaaaawd," Andrew screamed. "Don't –"

"Don't stop?" I asked. "Tell her. Tell your wife how sloppy and loose your shit cunt feels when you are fucking yourself while she is away. Just talk right into the camera, don't be shy!"

"I love –" Andrew said to me, to her, to the world. "I love how it feels. Oh god. Oh god, more. Put in more of your fucking fingers, I want more! I love to have my shit cunt filled. I always have. Since school! I didn't, oh god, I didn't want you –"

"– to know?" I asked. "Are you that ashamed of yourself, whore? To not tell the woman you love? To rather be fucked by a nigger cock to get a job? Or did you take the job to get fucked regularly by a nigger cock? Oh, that's right, we haven't told her that part yet, have we?"

I switched the phone's camera to record my cruelly smiling face.

"Darling," I said to Andrew's wife, "your husband's been fucking one of my slaves! A big nigger slave, to boot! Sliding his tongue all across that black, massive dick, all those long hours at work, that's what he's been doing. Shameful, isn't it? You agree that this alone is worth some kind of punishment, right?"

Another nod to Caroline.

Another finger shoved into his shit cunt. 

"He loves this!" shouted Caroline happily. "Mistress, he's got a completely fucking loose cunt muscle, so much so that I'm sure if he's willing, he could take two cocks there, easily!"

"That's right," I said. "James' cock stretches you out, so much so that you want to sit on it again and again, adding his black milk to your flaky shit for a chocolate milkshake! I have seen him do it, myself! To mother! And what a fucking good milkshake that must have been!"

"Tell her," I said to Andrew. "Confess everything!"

"He fucked me," Andrew screamed, panting in pain and pleasure from Caroline's finger scooping out the inside of his bowels. "He fucked the shit out of me! He made me shit it out! All of his cum, he made me shit it out! Don't stop, please, don't you stop fucking me!"

"Don't you wish your wife would do this to you?" I asked.

"Yes! Yes! Yes!" Andrew felt the rest of Caroline's fingers slip into his cunt, her hand disappearing past his impossible stretched ass cunt ring, fleshy nerves screaming in lust and humiliated pleasure. "I want it to be you, honey! I want it to be you fucking your worthless whore's shit cunt! I always wanted it to be you!"

"See?" I said to the camera. "Still loves you, he does. And now he will be yours. If you still want this worthless whore, with his wonderful depravity that could be all of yours to take, just like we are taking him. This is an invitation, darling. Don't miss out."

"Fuck me!" Andrew roared, no longer sure if he was talking to his wife, to me, or begging Caroline to push herself even further into him, something she was only too glad to do, syncing up with his angry, pleading, sobbing shouts.

"Fuck me! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck me!"

His cock, already engorged to the point of no return, rose up for the camera, smiled a wet, pre-cum filled smile, toothless and yet angry, before erupting, a cum-filled confession that splattered onto the ground and leaving him shaking and twitching for a good minute.

Caroline kept her hand inside him throughout his cum. His ass cunt clamped down around her wrist, begging her to stay inside without words, the scream of his orgasm penetrating the air just as violently as she was penetrating him, just as harshly as his wife would soon do, so I hoped. Then she slid out of him, her leather gloves soiled.

And allowed that tangled mess of flesh to collapse in shame and pride, a thick, white puddle of cum in front of him.

I switched off the phone. I put my arms around the crying and sobbing man in front of me. I told him that I had given him freedom. Freedom in all the slavery that would follow. He thanked me. After all that, he thanked me.

I felt proud.

It was shaping up to be a good morning.

VIII.

I forced myself out of bed, several weeks later, here and now.

Oh, yes. I had been a good morning, that one. And the one after that, because with each new day, the perversion of Caroline had grown, until she was now with me, changed and transformed, that wonderful wicked thing that she had become.

That I had made.

I pulled at the chain that connected to her collar.

The pain from the spikes digging into her neck and throat made her wake up. She crawled up from her place at the end of the bed, where she had curled up throughout the night and kissed me with a low purr.

"Today is going to be a good day," I told her.

"I am looking forward to it, Mistress."

As did I.