Looking back on it, she realised that the entrapment and path to slavery had been amazingly simple with young Caleb. The 40-year-old domina had a well-heeled stable of sluts and slaves, but most – of necessity – were of "a certain age".
After all, even if she would have taken them, very few 18-year-olds could afford her high prices – high prices for which, Mistress Diabolique knew, she offered an excellent service.
With men in their mid-30s to their late 50s, and women mostly in their 40s, Mistress Diabolique had a steady and affluent clientele. But as soon as she saw her young nephew in his semi-thong – it covered half his pert young bum – she knew she had to "have" him, as it were.
Part of the lad's steps to slavery were the result of his morning and afternoon chats with her assistant, the lovely ebony bitch, Tammy. A tall, large-busted lady, Tammy was 25 and she loved playing games with the youth – only at the start the "game" was two-handed crib.
While Mistress Diabolique had been ensconced in her well-appointed basement dungeon with a local bank manager, Tammy had taught Caleb how to play the game she described as "the best two-handed card game in the world".
Soon the terms "15-2, 15-4 and the rest won't score" were tripping off Caleb's tongue like a pub-hardened veteran. And soon, Mistress Diabolique knew, as she watched the pair playing while she rested between clients, something else would be "tripping off" the lad's tongue.
Tammy always wore a gleaming black satin bra, matching panties and suspended belt and shiny black stockings. Her feet would be shod in lace-up, "fuck me" stilettos, and her hair a glistening black pile of lustrous locks falling to her mid-back. While no Naomi Campbell, she was an utterly beguiling beauty. For his part, Caleb wore his black PVC posing pouch as he amused Tammy with his new-found aptitude at cards.
One morning, Mistress D, as Tammy referred to her, was watching the pair playing cards, when Caleb asked: "Aunty, just what is it you do downstairs in the basement?"
Mistress D looked at Tammy, who was wearing a cheeky grin.
"Go on Mistress D," said Tammy, "show him around. You've been leaving those femdom magazines lying around the house, he must have a pretty good idea of what we specialise in, anyway."
Mistress D sighed. "OK, Tammy, perhaps he'll find it interesting," she said, knowing that the more disinterested she seemed, the more Caleb would be curious. "What time's the fucking vicar due?"
Tammy inspected her large black, leather-bound diary. "In 30 minutes, you've got plenty of time, I'll let you know when he's in the holding cell."
And so, on the fourth day of his annual visit, Caleb went down into the basement, following the lovely full, firm body of the woman who had, for a very short space of time, been married to his father's older brother.
It was a lovely body to follow. The professional domina was clad in a black leather bustier, which gleamed with studded metal clips and pushed her big breasts into glorious uplift. On her hips shone a pair of black leather hot pants, which were cut so that half her extremely lickable buttocks were on display. Knee-high boots added to her hauteur.
Caleb was hard in his posing pouch, and didn't bother to hide it. He knew she knew she turned him on. False modesty was not something that worked with his aunt, as he well knew by now.
At the door to the "theatre of dreams" as she sometimes referred to it, Mistress D held onto the knob, then looked back and noticed that another "knob" was hard, indeed.
"Come into my parlour, said the spider to the fly," said the 40-year-old as she swung the door open. Stepping inside, Caleb saw a sight that would forever be etched in his mind. He had seen plenty of "dungeon" interiors in his aunt's strategically-placed magazines, but nothing like this.
The walls were draped in heavy, lush, dark red velvet curtains. Frames held implements which looked as if they could inflict quite severe, not to say intolerable pain. There was what looked like a metal, two-posted flogging frame, with a metal crossbar. From it hung black straps.
In the centre of the room was what was obviously a flogging bench. Off to one side a large, luxury leather couch. In one corner a similarly comfortable-looking easy chair. Another plain kitchen chair, with strategically-placed straps, stood alongside it.
In another corner, head pointing in to the velvet drapes, was a sort of leather-padded Y-shaped gurney, on a sturdy metal frame, with castor wheels for easy portability.
Caleb gasped. "Shit, aunty, pardon my language, but it's stunning – do you use all of these things," he said, gingerly fingering a thriple-thonged tawse.
Mistress D smiled. "Darling, half of them are purely for show, it's just their mere presence which sends lovely little tremors of fear through my slaves," she said.
"No, my expertise is more in the erotic domination of recalcitrant slaves, not in flaying the flesh from their backs – you see, most of them are married, it wouldn't do for them to appear before their wives – or husbands, for that matter – displaying welts and bruises," she informed her young nephew.
"But," said Caleb, struggling for words, "but, what, I mean – I don't know how to put it – what do you
do
?"
Mistress D laughed, and walked towards the young man, placing a cool hand on his burgeoning "crown jewels".
"I tease and torment them," she informed him. "I allow them to perform body worship."
"Where?" asked Caleb, his voice now a husky rasp.
"Here," said Mistress D, running her free hand across her ample breasts. "Here," now across her lovely pert buttocks.
