XV. Dressed
He had never put on women's clothing before. He was unsure where to start. The white garter, he supposed. As he was pulling it up to his waist, and ascertaining exactly how it worked, Mistress Wendy pulled the camera over towards the bed.
"You love the little outfit I've brought you, don't you slut," she said.
"Yes, Mistress," he said, "I hardly deserve it."
"Tell me, how do you like the feel of the stockings?"
He was then just rolling the stockings up his leg. He spoke the truth when he said, "They feel great, Mistress. So soft. Such a sensation on my legs." Indeed, they did feel soft and almost soothing on his welt-stained legs.
He next slid on the white silk panties, then fastened the stockings to the garter. He got that right. His penis, long dormant from the pain, stirred against the wonderful fabric of the panties. He returned to full erection, and the tip of his penis poked up through the waistband. He wondered, "Now what? The soft, black maid's dress?" She again read his doubting mind.
"The shoes. Put on the shoes," she said. His toes stung as he plunged them into the patent leather, long-heeled shoes. The shoes each had a strap above the ankle. Mistress Wendy locked each strap with tiny padlocks. "Walk a bit for me, whore," said. "Frolic for the camera."
His toes screamed with pain as he stepped to the floor. He wobbled, then began some tentative steps. "Sashe, damn it. You love it and you know it," she said. "Walk. Strut you stuff, you slut." She slapped his ass playfully.
He quickly, if inelegantly, started to stroll back and forth before the bed—and the camera. His calves and lower back started aching, merging with the increasing pain in his toes. "Shake it," Mistress said, "Bend over and shake your booty."
Despite the pain and humiliation, he was remarkably responsive. He did as his Mistress demanded without pause. He leaned against the bed for support and swirled his buttocks. "Spread those cheeks," she said, and so he did. His toes, calves and lower back were in agony. God he hated those shoes.
She next grabbed a beer from the mini-bar. Mistress Wendy said, "Open wide." He did so. She dropped the tiny key to the padlocks of the ankle straps deep back on his tongue, splashed some beer in his mouth and, pressing his jaws closed, said, "Swallow hard, bitch." She shook his head and he gulped deeply. "Those shoes and hose will come off maybe tomorrow," she said, "If you are lucky and pass the key and find it in the morning. Maybe I can help you with that," she added. "Not the finding, the passing..."
She slapped his buttocks and said, "You finish prettying yourself up, honey, I've got to change."
He watched her incredible black vision pass through the door into the other unit. Somehow he still craved whatever attention she might give him. His thoughts then turned to "prettying himself up." As he put on the remainder of the French maid's uniform, the black dress with shoulder straps and a tiny white apron, he tried not to think about searching for the key in the morning, nor how she might help "the passing." He tried, too, as well as he could, not to think of the pain in his toes. Instead, he focused on what an incredible woman his Mistress was, and how much he longed to please her.
XVI. Threatened
He was leaning back against the side of the bed, almost sitting on its edge, trying to keep his weight off his feet, trapped as they were in the painful high-heeled shoes. The door between Sundown A and B burst open and Mistress Wendy stormed into the room.
"You begged me to fuck you?" she roared. "I'm going to rape you, pretty boy. Get used to it."
She presented a new vision in black. Her hair was tied in a tight knot behind her head, with a loose strand hanging down her forehead, and another gracing the side of her face. A tight, jet-black tee shirt, black boots, this time thick and short heeled. Tight black straight-legged Levis, worn over the boots. She looked lovely still, but extremely threatening. He noticed the large bulge in the crotch of her jeans, pressing against her zipper right up to the unfastened front button. But mostly he noticed the long straight-edged razor she brandished.
In a flash she was behind him, cupping his mouth in her free, left hand and pinching his nostrils shut with her fingers. With her right hand, she pressed the dull side of the razor against his throat. Shocked, he gulped for air, but only vainly sucked the heel of her hand. She held him before the full-length mirror and pressed her crotch against his ass.
"You're going to do exactly as I say. If you don't..." she slowly rotated the blade so the sharp edge approached his throat. He could see it clearly in the mirror and there was no need for her to complete her sentence or the rotation of the blade, which would have, at least, cut him for sure. He knew.
"Rape. It excites you, doesn't it," she said. "I suppose you have fantasized about it." In fact, the whole concept of rape appalled him. It was completely against his nature. He had two friends who admitted to having been raped, and he had wept for them and the unspeakable violation they suffered. Still, despite all that, he could not deny he had sometimes read of rapes, both play and real, and fantasized about it. Appalling and unthinkable, but in some way exciting in the darkest corner of his submissive mind.
Similarly, he had on occasion viewed pictures of beautiful Asian women with strap-ons, and fantasized being ravished by them. But in fact when with a clearer head he thought of someone sticking something up his anus, he imagined it sickening, painful and anything but sexually stimulating. The same with wearing women's clothing. It was the idea, not the reality, that had brought him to this spot.
But this was all too real. He wanted to be home in bed, never having known the pain of the beatings and the humiliations he had already suffered. But things were completely out of his control. He was now convinced his Mistress was crazy, and he might well die if he did not do as he was told. In short, this was rape, although he was not entirely innocent. He put himself in this position. His thoughts now turned to survival.
"I'm going to release your mouth now," she said, "You had better not scream." His pleading eyes said "yes, let me breath." She slowly released her hand from his mouth and pulled hard on the hair on the back of his head. The sharp edge of the blade moved with the jerks of his throat as he gasped for air. "Are you with me?" she asked. He could barely voice his consent. She rotated the sharp edge of the blade away from his throat and said, "All right."
She pushed him harshly backwards onto the bed. His head smacked into the headboard. "Spread your legs, slut, I'm going to tie you up." He did so, quickly, and his legs lay limply sprawled on the bed. Mistress Wendy took some lengths of cotton rope. She wrapped them several times around each ankle. Spreading each leg tight, she tied the rope-ends to the corner bedposts. Without saying more, and with no resistance on his part, she pulled his arms up behind him, tied his wrists together, and tied them off on the middle of the headboard. Her every action was rough, carrying an unspoken threat that cowered him further.
