Ellie arrives at her domme's house late in the evening. The house is isolated in the forest, and dark, except for a few exterior lights. Huge, silent and imposing.
It is a full week since Ellie's domme last allowed her a real orgasm, and Ellie is red hot. Before she met Miriam, she would masturbate to climax every morning and at least once a night. She was insatiable, and, Miriam observed, undisciplined. Miriam took control of her body, took command of all of her pleasure. Miriam took her orgasms away. And then gave them back, at achingly slow, methodical intervals, each one coming as the ecstatic climax of a new BDSM scene. Each one three times as intense as anything Ellie had experienced before. Each one a gift from Miriam, now her only source of pleasure.
Ellie trades for orgasms now, exchanging hours of obedience and submission for sexual release. Miriam owns her, and she loves to be owned. Ellie is here tonight to submit to her domme, once again. She has been given very specific instructions, and she has them committed to memory.
As she locks her car, she hears a distant, full-throated wail, emanating from somewhere inside the house. It's a familiar sound: Ellie's domme's other sub, Simone, deep in the depths of submission, receiving a heavy jolt of... well, it's not possible to say for sure. Extreme pleasure, or intense pain. Most likely a cocktail of both. At a certain level of intensity, Ellie knows, the two become difficult to tell apart.
Ellie shivers with anticipation.
She climbs the steps to the front door. The door is unlocked. Ellie goes in and locks the door behind her, as instructed. It's dark inside, and she's been warned not to turn any lights on. While she waits for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, she disrobes, dropping her skirt and T-shirt on the floor, right there in the hall. Her domme told her that it wouldn't matter what she wore, so that's all she wore: loose clothing she could discard in a few seconds, and no underwear.
Ellie Holloway is six feet and one inch tall, with cropped dirty blonde hair, ice-blue eyes and a physique packed to bursting with hard, hard-earned muscle. Her body is her domme's, and she is under orders to maintain it to her domme's strict personal specifications. That means muscle mass, and definition, and brute strength. Ellie has shoulders like cannonballs, deep pectoral cleavage between her delightful B-cup breasts, flared latissimi dorsi and abdominals like a stack of bricks. Her torso tapers to a deep creased V, leading from the crests of her hips down to the narrow cleft of her pussy. Her thighs are almost as wide as her waist, and her calf muscles are like fists.
Her domme also requires her to be hairless below the eyebrows and scalp. Her deeply tanned skin is as smooth as cream, all over.
Nude and barefoot, Ellie pads down a dark corridor, gingerly, tracing along the wall with one hand. She knows the way, but she's never gone this way without being able to see.
Simone wails again. Much closer and louder. Whatever is happening to her, it's driving her wild. A drawn-out, heart-rending, ecstatic caterwaul. Ellie stops moving, listening in the darkness, transfixed. It sounds so good. In another few moments she'll be joining Simone, and, she hopes, joining her at a similar depth of submission.
Ellie realizes that she's holding her breath, and gasps.
Around the next corner, the corridor is not completely dark. A small amount of light spills out from a door, standing slightly ajar on the left. The dungeon. Ellie goes in, and closes the door behind her.
*
There is just one weak orange spotlight lit in the dungeon, shining down on a bondage chair in the center of the room. The chair is black: black wooden frame, black leather upholstery. It has a high back, a head rest and arm rests. It is covered with black leather straps.
Off to Ellie's left, Simone is suspended, upside-down, from the ceiling. She is wrapped from her ankles to her head in a tight black latex cocoon. Her legs are sealed together into a shiny tail, and her arms are clamped to her sides, except for two slits at thigh level which allow her hands to emerge, and flex and clench, uselessly. There is also an opening for Simone's mouth, and she is moaning miserably.
Ellie admires her sister sub's bound figure, gleaming in the weak amber light. Simone is a petite, slim girl. Her nipples poke through the tight latex, showing her horizontal barbell piercings. Ellie can see the contours of her lower ribs, and her flat tummy, and the crests of her hips. Between her thighs, there is the clear outline of a very large, powerful personal massage toy, its head pressed firmly against Simone's pussy.
The glossy black cocoon alone is enough to totally immobilize Simone, but her domme has added even more restraints: loops of thin white rope, binding her knees, thighs, waist and torso, and radiating out to attachment points on the walls, floor and ceiling. So, instead of swaying freely, Simone is forced to hang straight down. And when the vibrator switches on for another burst of activity, and Simone screeches with ecstasy and her body convulses and she wails and struggles and twists and fights and sobs -- it achieves nothing. She can't move, not more than an inch. She is a fly in a spider's web.
Ellie can't guess how long Simone has been hanging there. As Ellie takes the sight in, Simone's vibrator wakes up again, and Simone writhes some more. "Oh, GOD! Thank you, ma'am! More, please, ma'am!"
Miriam -- ma'am -- is nowhere to be seen.
Ellie turns her attention back to the chair. She spends a long, tense few minutes studying all of the straps, figuring out how they're intended to be used. Then she sits in the chair, and straps herself in.
There are straps for her legs, thighs, waist and torso. One leather strap passes below her breasts, and one above, just below her armpits. A broader, more comfortably padded strap is for her throat. That strap holds her chin up and pulls her head back against the headrest, making it so that she can no longer look around freely. She uses her right hand to strap her left arm to the seat's left arm. And that's all she can do by herself. Her right arm is still free. She loosely fastens the last few straps, and then, awkwardly, slides her right arm into them. She takes a deep breath, and tries to stop shaking. The chair is much more comfortable than she expected.
Simone continues to struggle. It's not clear whether she knows that Ellie is here. Ellie has been pretty quiet, and Simone may not be able to hear clearly through her latex cocoon... and she may be somewhat distracted. Anyway, it seems as if Simone's vibrator is slowing down, giving her less intense stimulation, at longer intervals.
After some minutes of waiting, Ellie hears movement behind her. She can't turn her head to look. Could Miriam have been waiting back there, in the shadows, this whole time? A secret door? She hears footsteps, a delicate clacking of tall heels on polished wood.
There is a loud click. A key, turning in the door to the dungeon. Locking it. Ellie gulps.
And then, a gloved hand snakes its way around her shoulder and down, across her chest. And a second hand, around her other shoulder. Miriam reaches forward, for the loose strap around Ellie's right wrist, and tugs firmly on it, tightening it. Instinctively, Ellie clenches her fist and pulls against the strap. But Miriam is already tightening the straps above and below her right elbow, too, and the strap just below her armpit. As Ellie flexes, the chair creaks, but only a little. She's not getting out of this, not now.
Miriam nibbles Ellie's ear. "Mmmmh," she says, very satisfied.
Ellie can hardly breathe. Not because of the strap around her throat, she's just so excited.
"A long time ago," Miriam whispers, so softly that it gives Ellie goosebumps, "we discussed workplace attire. And you asked me what I prefer to wear. And I dodged the question. And I never told you the answer. But now... my dear young sub, you get to find out."
She circles around to where Ellie can see her. Ellie's eyes widen. She is on a hair trigger, baking hot, and the sight of her domme makes her squeal with lust.
Miriam is a naturally curvaceous woman, blessed with broad hips and magnificent, firm G-cup breasts. She works tirelessly in the gym to maintain a trim waist, and her work pays off in spades. But the corset... the corset takes her hourglass figure to the next level. It's an overbust corset, which shapes and compresses her breasts, pushing them up and creating an ocean of cleavage. Black, and steel-boned, it tapers to a gaspingly narrow waist -- it can't be more than twenty inches -- and then flares out, sitting easily on her hips. It's tailored to her figure, and like all good corsets, it's comfortable enough that she could wear it all day.
She also wears a silver chain necklace, with a blue gemstone sat invitingly at the top of her cleavage, drawing Ellie's eye. She wears fancy silver earrings, and she has her mass of silky black hair tied up into an elaborate pony tail, which hangs around halfway down her back. She wears elbow-length silk gloves. Below the waist, she wears a tight black skirt which ends a few inches above the knee. Black knee-height stockings, stay-ups, come up to barely an inch below the skirt, leaving two narrow strips of toned thigh exposed. She wears black leather calf boots with what are, for her, extremely tall heels, doing for her legs and ass what the corset does for her upper body.
She is divine. Mesmerizing. A dominant sexual goddess. Here to rule, to own her subs' pathetic bodies, to wring them dry while they scream for more.
Ellie pulls frantically against her bonds. She doesn't know what she would do if she could get free. Melt into a worthless puddle at her domme's feet, probably. "Nnh!"
