Friday the 13th Pt. 03a

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Part 3a continues from where Part 2a left off.

Once again my thanks go to SlaveGirl70 and LunarSirius.


After she left, I lay as positioned for some time but my ski sock ‘breasts’ were pressing into my chest and becoming somewhat uncomfortable. With some difficulty, my knees attached as they were by the handcuffs to the foot of the bed, I managed to wriggle and turn over so I was lying on my back. However within a few seconds this turned out to be even more painful, as my stiletto heels dug sharply into my buttocks. I rolled onto my right side, which pushed my right elbow further behind my back and placed some tension on my upper arm. I soon discovered that this, too, was not particularly comfortable but it was the least uncomfortable of any position I could find, so I settled down as best I could to contemplate the awful situation in which I found myself.

I had no idea how long I lay like that, and being blindfolded I couldn’t even tell if it was still daylight when I heard the front door eventually open again. I braced myself for impact!

But something wasn’t right. After an extended period of silence, footsteps I didn’t recognise made their way up the stairs. They certainly weren’t my wife’s soft and delicate tread and neither did they sound like the gait of my step-daughter I remembered from earlier. It was a harsh, almost stomping stride that I heard ascending the stairs. So what now? A burglar to cap off what was fast becoming the worst day of my life? Friday the 13th should be banned and removed from all calendars forever more. Whoever it was marched straight into the bedroom and stopped near the door in silence, no doubt also surprised to see the figure trussed up on the bed. Who could this possibly be?

“So! You’ve managed to wriggle onto your side.” The voice was like a snarling, harsher version of my step-daughter’s. “Was my positioning of your pitiful being not good enough for you?” Indeed it was her again, hopefully to release me before my wife got home from work and save me from embarrassment. The answer to that turned out to be yes and no!

She continued, “It’s time you were formally introduced to your Mistress. From this day forth you will be known as ‘Male Slave’, most often abbreviated to ‘Emmy’ for my convenience. When you are permitted to speak you will call me ‘Mistress’ at all times. Upon receiving instructions, you will ALWAYS answer by saying ‘Yes, Mistress.’ Do you understand?” She paused for a minute. “I don’t hear you!”

“Efff Mffshrrfff.” I mumbled into my gag. There followed a number of bright flashes and the sound of a camera motor as she took photographs of me in this embarrassing situation. She then rolled me on to my front, released my knees from the foot of the bed and removed the rope that attached my ankles to my forearms. She then removed the rope at my knees and next to go was the belt wrapped around my forearms. The gag had caused me to dribble and the whole right side of my face was covered in saliva.

I was turned onto my back and I felt her adjust my stocking tops and dress, front and back, to position them as she saw fit. She attached some kind of strap to my left wrist, and then my right, after which my extended levent escort arms were secured to the metalwork of the headboard. During all this I could feel my penis stiffening and filling its rubber sheath and even before she removed my blindfold I could feel my face flushing with embarrassment. It took my eyes a few seconds to adjust to the light and then I froze completely. If my mouth hadn’t already been stretched to its fullest by the gag it would have gaped this wide of its own accord!

There she stood, clearly visible in all her menacing glory, my new Mistress. I could see that it was most definitely my step-daughter and, as I stretched to glance over the side of the bed, I could see she was standing majestically on 8″ stiletto heels, giving her a towering height of 6’6″! The extra inches were supplied by a 2½” platform sole that was the foundation of a pair of stunning, black patent, thigh-high boots. The boots were securely laced over the legs of a shiny, black, one-piece latex cat-suit that fitted her like a second skin, downwards from the neck, under which I detected no sign of either bra or briefs.

Her midriff was compressed by a fiercely tight corset reaching from the hips, making them seem to splay improbably wide from her cinched waist, to just below her breasts which were forced up and together and had no choice but to protrude delectably outwards in all their grandeur, to the extent that her nipples were plainly visible, distorting the front of the costume. Her hands were encased in rubber, from the fingertips all the way up the arms in what seemed to be an integral part of the suit, and the neck was sealed with an inch wide leather collar. Finally, her make-up was exaggerated and possibly a bit tarty, and her long raven hair was pulled severely back from her face and gathered in a pony tail protruding from the top and centre of her head, the first 2″ wrapped in some kind of material to form a trunk. The remaining loose hair then flowed gracefully down her back. My penis grew with every second that I surveyed the ravishing beauty before me.

She knew this, of course, and proceeded to strut around the foot of the bed taking more photographs. This time, without the blindfold, I would be completely recognisable, dribble and all! Straight-backed, head held high with an air of self-assured arrogance, she paced nonchalantly but with purpose, almost stalking me, until she reached the opposite side of the bed. Her glance moved towards my groin.

“Dear me,” she patronized, “Getting hot for your Mistress as well as your daughter? She told me all about you.” For a split second I almost believed they were separate entities.

Her hand slipped up under the hem of the dress and she started squeezing and releasing my rubber-clad penis just as before. No matter how hard I tried, or what dull pictures I tried to envisage in my head, I had no way of preventing the inevitable.

She continued speaking whilst handling me, “I am capable of divorcing home life from fantasy and I expect you to do the same. Whenever you see your Mistress you will be her slave, and whenever you see your daughter you will be her father. You will do this because YOU do not want beyoğlu escort your wife to have even an inkling that her husband has got something going on with her daughter. If that were discovered it would require you to explain an awful lot more than you would want, or of which you are even capable. Now, as you are standing to attention as required, what do you say we finish you off for the day?”

She removed the rope from around my ankles with a muttered ‘nicely done’ and as she did so I glanced up to see that my left wrist had been fitted with a leather cuff and attached to the framework of the bed by tying the rope to the inbuilt D-Ring of the left cuff and wrapping it around one of the wrought iron decorations. From there the rope travelled across to the other side of the headboard where the same process was repeated on the right cuff. I looked back toward my legs and saw the bulge under the LBD that confirmed my arousal. Meanwhile, each ankle was being fitted with identical leather cuffs as used on my wrists and attached in a similar manner to either side of the footboard. I was now spread-eagled and once more at the mercy of my new Mistress who surveyed her handiwork with the smug satisfaction of an expert.

“As you have been such a good little slave and not fought back, or been abusive or difficult, I think you deserve to come off, don’t you?” Her patronising tone made me feel about three years old and six inches tall.

My cheeks burned afresh with humiliation as she reached up under my dress and once again caressed my phallus ensuring it remained at full stature, all the while whispering encouragement I couldn’t quite hear, as if speaking directly to it. She stopped some considerable time before I was even close to ejaculation and stated boldly, “There. That should do it.” She pulled my dress back down and smoothed it over the pronounced bulge of my cock, which obviously generated a conspicuous hillock in the dress. Again she picked up the camera and snapped some more shots of my distressing predicament.

“The wonderful thing about this camera is that it also takes video,” she suddenly announced. Striding back to right side of the bed she bent out of sight for a few seconds and then the cock ring vibrator started up. She was going to video me being pleasured by a machine whilst helplessly shackled to a bed. My self-esteem was now at its nadir as I desperately tried not to be aroused, to no avail.

The tingling sensation of the relentless quivering of the cock ring gradually began to have what seemed like a numbing effect on my penis. My member, which had been beginning to slump since my Mistress had ceased her ministrations, quickly became fully engorged once again and was soon pulsing to its own rhythmic beat. At this point Mistress stretched out an arm, while still filming, and gathered the hem of my dress into a bunch just above my groin and then released, spring-like, my penis from the confines of the lacy knickers I had only worn for show.

She went to my wife’s dressing table where she set down the camera and sat on the stool. My cock started slowly pirouetting to its own music as the stimulation of the vibrator began to do its kağıthane escort work. After a few minutes I could feel my balls beginning to tighten as they prepared to release their cargo and I began to unconsciously moan under my breath. Now I was developing feelings of guilt as my arousal matured. How is it that I could possibly have got myself into such a compromising, yet stimulating, fantasy consummation with my own daughter as the catalyst? As I approached the apex of this ordeal I gyrated my hips in an effort to expedite the fruition of what was now a torment of unrequited sensuality. My breath shortened and became shallow, my face flushed as red as it could and my cock twitched like a demented conductors baton. Finally my legs stiffened, my back arched as my hips rose. I let out a gag-stifled, almost gurgling, howl and semen gushed forth from my penis into the rubber sheath that enveloped it.

“Oh, Bravo!” came a cry from the foot of the bed. “Now that’s what I call a money shot.” Did she sound a little breathless herself?

I had almost forgotten she was still there, but there was nothing I could do to control myself. The device was still buzzing, my brain was still fuzzy, my cock was still jerking, and I was still groaning into the gag. After about another minute, notwithstanding the constant stimulation from the cock ring, my phallus began to slump despite itself. It was now that Mistress turned off the camera and vibrator and sat next to me on the bed.

“I bet that was as good for you as it was for me,” she joked. “Now to business. I will release you before I go, obviously, and you can clean up and pack up as and how you wish. Tomorrow, Saturday, you will report to me at the flat at 11am wearing this same attire. How you get to me is not my problem, but when I open my front door I expect to see you dressed exactly like this. As you know, I have photographs and video, which I am sure you would prefer did not see the light of day. So, I’ll see you tomorrow morning, and for your own sake, don’t be late.” And with that she released one wrist cuff and left the room.

I lay there for a few minutes commiserating with myself and then set to work freeing my remaining limbs from their confinement. I didn’t have time for a wash and dry cycle on the clothing, so I folded it all up as neatly as possible and replaced it, hoping that my wife would not wish to wear any of this particular ensemble tomorrow. I replaced the other paraphernalia in the shed, along with the wrist and ankle cuffs she had left attached to me. I made the bed, had a quick shower and then set about the untouched chores, all the while trying to think of a reason for going out tomorrow.

About thirty-five minutes later the front door opened again. “Hi darling, I’m home,” called my wife. “Oh! You’re late with the housework today. Anything wrong?”

“No, sweetheart.” I replied, “I just spent way too long relaxing and watching the telly. How was your day?”

“Same as usual. By the way, I’m out with the girls tomorrow for some shopping and a spot of lunch so you’ll have the place to yourself again. I hope you don’t mind the short notice but we only discussed it today.”

“Not at all. You go ahead and enjoy yourself, but don’t spend too much.” What a relief! She always leaves well before ten on her ‘girlie’ days. Another bullet dodged.

“Do I ever?” she chastised, and she was right. For someone who goes shopping with her as often as she does she spends remarkably little. I guess she’s just too picky with her style.

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