Master Soamess Submissives Iris

"You're such a worthless asshole, Soames." Iris Logdonovich said angrily.

Flick! Soames threw his burning cigarette and it bounced off Iris's pretty pink nipple. Generally, when outside, Iris covered her curves with very mannish clothing, so as to be taken seriously in her job as a broker at Garrick & Keane.

Now, standing with her feet on two chairs, stark naked, and hands behind her back, Iris was gorgeous, angry and distracted. She hated Soames.

She'd given him a grand total of eleven thousand dollars in the past two years, but she hated him.

And the chairs...her legs ached, especially in her thighs. Pride kept Iris from complaining, or even admitting to the big sexist asshole how much pain she was in.

Iris had once seen another submissive-a little Jewish man-standing on the chairs in another room, naked but for a chastity device, but the little man was also being forced to hold an old fashioned Yellow Pages telephone book in each hand, balancing them...

Iris had heard of other subs of Soames's who had balanced glasses of wine on top of the telephone books.

Why wasn't she considered strong enough to hold the Yellow Pages?

Of course she did hold her hands behind her back with admirable restraint, and earlier, Soames had reached up with a long cut thorny branch and thrashed her nipples rather energetically, and she hadn't had to let go of her wrist and grab her tits...

Soames always smiled contemptuously when Iris had weakened, and she became wet with desire, in rage and humiliation.

With the memories fresh, Iris could go home and fuck her husband Dave...who was such a great guy.

Dave often commented at what a giving lover Iris was after she'd gone to "therapy."

"I think the titties are sagging, Iris." Soames said cheerfully. He was relaxing in a leather chair with his feet in those disgusting, sexist engineer's boots on-not a hassock, like a normal man use, but a crouching naked blonde geezer...Calvin.

"Fuck you, Soames." Iris was defiant.

Soames pulled out his box of wooden kitchen matches and selected one from the box. "They call these Lucifer matches, Iris. Like the devil." Soames struck the match on his pant leg and flicked it at Iris's left breast, and she tried manfully not to flinch.

I can't give the bastard the satisfaction.

But another match whizzed over and hit her shoulder, and the burn made Iris let go of her wrist and clutch herself, and Soames laughed. Calvin, the footstool, also laughed, and Soames casually took a boot off Cal's back and kicked him hard, sideways.

"What are you laughing at, you wimpy little faggot? Cal, Iris is tougher than you on her worst day. Just for that, I'm going to give you candle therapy later."

"No please, Mr.Soames." Iris knew "candle therapy" involved having a lit candle stuck up the anus, burning for an hour. After she was once "candled" by Soames, Iris couldn't shit without crying for nearly a month.

"God, bitch and whine." Soames got up and towered over the naked kneeling slave. Soames had told Iris that Cal was a mechanic, but he looked like a bookkeeper or possibly a male seamstress.

As Iris watched from her balance on the two wooden chairs, Soames kicked Cal again in the side, and as Cal lay on his back, Soames ordered the little mechanic to spread his legs, and then Soames crashed his boot into Cal's groin, and then, as Cal rolled on his side, Soames ground Cal's cock into the wood floor like an errant cigarette butt.

"What a sad little pee-pee you have." Soames smiled, looking down at Cal as the man wept silently. Soames dug the heel further into the head of Cal's penis, and Iris remembered once when he'd done the same with one of her breasts as she'd laid down in the same place, almost.

Now, as Soames looked up at Iris, as his heel continued to dig and poke Cal's cock, he smiled. "Don't worry, Iris, haven't forgotten you, I'm going to give you your money's worth."

"No, no it's all right-" But Iris's voice, was cut off as Soames finally stepped off Cal, who rolled into a weepy, disgusting ball. Crossing over to the table, Soames picked up a discarded car radio ariel from a '78 Datsun that he said had belonged to his grandfather.

Iris thought of some months ago, when she'd foolishly invited Soames to a dinner party she'd had. Soames had been quite a hit, for someone who refused to wear a tie.

"Really? You have no first name?" Alderman Pechtel had asked. "No no, call me Soames." "Well you must call me Clovis."

As Soames, a middle school dropout had debated Cezanne and John Rawls and the unified field theory with Iris and Dave's professional friends, he'd kept checking her out in her cute dress in the corner of the room, where she also was holding court.

In the middle of dinner, Soames had given Iris a signal, and she'd followed him upstairs to her bedroom, and he'd ordered her to strip and she'd bit the pillow as Soames let fly with the same radio antenna he was coming at her with now.

Oh well. It was at best an old friend.