“She’s going to whip us,” Beth whispered to me.
We were hanging by our wrists, face to face, in Cynthia’s dungeon. Her mother approached with an evil-looking implement. “You two had your pleasure for the evening,” she purred. “Time to pay the piper.”
The black lace domino mask that covered the area around her eyes did not conceal the devilish gleam that flickered in them. It also did not hide the wicked smirk that danced around the woman’s full, red lips.
In this role-play session, my mother-in-law was known to us only as “Madam,” a Dominatrix slave-trader who had captured Beth and me.
The emerald-green catsuit that clung to her voluptuous figure must have been tailor-made for the striking redhead. Strategic cutouts in the outfit displayed her deep cleavage and other tantalizing parts of her fair skin underneath the tight fabric.
Knee-high boots with platformed soles gave Cynthia solid footing as she circled the two of us and lightly swished her multi-tailed flogger against our naked and helpless bodies. The leathery caress of the scourge was certainly a minuscule preview of the pummeling we bound captives were slated to endure.
“No one will hear your calls for help down here,” Madam continued. “Just be cautioned that, while I will accept a certain level of cries of anguish from you—for I do enjoy listening to the sounds of suffering—I will not tolerate loud screams. For that you will be additionally punished.”
She slipped behind Beth, and, grabbing my wife’s dark, shoulder-length hair, yanked her head back.
“This one will confirm that the massive dildo gags I use to silence my overly-loud thralls are...shall we say...massively uncomfortable. Right, Zia?”
“Yes, ma’am,” gasped Beth.
In this sexual fantasy world that Cynthia had cooked up, I was a new captive of this villainess; Beth, as a combination slave and assistant, was not.
“Zia” was her slave name. My designation for now was simply “Meat,” the idea being that my only worth to her was as a slab of manly “meat” to be ridden and tortured.
Right now, that hunk of beef sticking out from my pelvis was bound up in a set of leather straps that firmly encircled the base of my penis and that pulled my testicles away from my body. My cock, despite having shot a mighty load once this night in Cynthia’s shower, and ridden by her just a few minutes previously, was fully hard, just the way that “Madam” liked it.
Well, I was beginning to like it, too. This BDSM stuff was new to me, but it was getting interesting.
------------------------------
In the first part of our session down here in Cynthia’s dungeon, to ease me into the world of kinky sex, I had been sucked and stroked by my mother-in law—as herself, not in character—while bound to a standing X-frame. During that exquisite cock-tease, Beth had been tied down to an equally tormenting Sybian vibrator machine that she was straddling.
Her mother did not allow either of us to orgasm.
I had then been strapped down to a long, padded table for some additional carnal fun. Cynthia rode my cock to a massive climax—hers only—while Beth assisted her mother in reaching that pinnacle by licking both our genitals, as the cougar bounced on my cock, reverse-cowgirl style.
Still no sexual release for Beth or me.
Once Cynthia got her rocks off, she excused herself to change clothes and assume a character, a Dominatrix, for the second part of the session. It was time to up the ante, to try some role-play, which she loved.
(Author’s note: This time period was covered in Part 4 of this series.)
While the mature redhead was changing in the next room, Beth climbed up beside my still-bound form for some cuddling and kissing. It was a nice, quiet moment between us, a time to catch our breath after we’d gone through two or three hours of odd bondage-themed sexual activities all over her mother’s house.
Beth's "cuddling" became more intimate as she started to caress both our sex organs. If her goal was to keep mine hard and hers wet, she was succeeding at both.
But she was also holding back, trying to avoid bringing either of us to climax. It was obvious that Cynthia did not want us to cum yet.
By mutual agreement, her mother was totally in charge of the activities on this Friday evening. Beth’s turn to direct the sexual festivities would come Saturday, and I'd be in charge on Sunday.
However, after a short time, Beth got increasingly horny. She raised herself up and climbed on top of me, the look of lust in her eyes unmistakable. My wife slid her moist cunt up and down on my firm belly and my rigid cock, obviously intending to mount me like her mother had a few minutes before.
Just then, Cynthia burst into the dungeon in her outrageously sexy fetish outfit wielding a riding crop. The timing was perfect; she may have been secretly watching us.
“I leave you two fuck-slaves alone for a couple of minutes, and this is what I find? Sexing yourselves up without my permission? Get off him, Zia!”
Beth jumped off quickly like a good bond-servant. Then the two women released me from the table and replaced my simple wristbands with what Beth later told me were called suspension cuffs.
These were wider, more substantial leather restraints that gave more support to the joints. They also had built-in straps that fit into my palms so I could grip them with my hands. Beth was fitted with a similar pair.
We were then led to an open section of the dungeon where chains dangled from overhead hoisting mechanisms built into the ceiling beams. Our wrists cuffs were connected to them and raised far over our heads. We stood face to face, naked and helpless.
While Cynthia busied herself at a table full of BDSM tools and remote controls, Beth whispered some instructions.
“I’m a seasoned slave owned by Madam,” she told me, setting the scene, “and you're a new captive to be broken in and tested. You don’t have to grovel and be all submissive; a little pushback is permitted, but keep in mind that you are a captive and should be somewhat intimidated by her. And aroused.”
It wasn’t hard to be both; Cynthia’s voluptuous figure crammed into that tight catsuit was certainly arousing. The domino mask, along with the riding crop she carried with authority, took care of the intimidation factor.
Beth had earlier explained that donning masks of this type in the dungeon indicated a shift to role-play fantasy mode.
It was all a little silly and melodramatic, but I wasn’t laughing. I suddenly realized I had known both these women for less than a year, and while I loved and trusted my wife Beth, we were now totally at the mercy of her mother.
A mother who, up until the previous weekend—when I found her stuck in self-bondage and fucked her at her request—had been rude and borderline abusive to me.
A mother who had just restrained me in cuffs that were not toys, but the real deal.
A mother who had a freaking secret dungeon in her basement.
My head was telling me that I was foolish for going along with this, but my cock disagreed wholeheartedly; especially when Cynthia—okay, “Madam”—spritzed massage oil on our torsos and rubbed it into our skins, front and back. She lingered awhile on my rigid cock, her daughter's cunt, and both sets of nipples.
Besides stellar blowjobs, the redhead gave great hand jobs: she had already stroked us off once this evening, in the large shower stall in the next room. I wondered if another was on the menu, but the woman apparently had other plans.
Cynthia took off her oily gloves as she moved over to the dungeon’s control panel. She activated a set of soft spotlights to shine on Beth and me in as we stood the center of the room.
At the same time, the huge television monitor on the wall, which had been showing abstract, fuzzy images of figures having sex, now came to life with split-screen views of Beth and me, from two different angles. The live feed showed us standing face-to-face, with our hands bound high above our heads.
We looked damned good; our bodies glistened in a vision of sensuality as the oil simulated the sweat a pair of slaves might accumulate during a long, stressful punishment session.
I looked around and spotted some small cameras mounted on the walls around us. I had overlooked them before.
“We’re being filmed?” I whispered to Beth.
“Another one of the things I told you about in the drive over here that you weren’t listening to,” she chided me.
“The sessions down here,” she continued, “are recorded just for our own pleasure, our own memories. The computer that controls the system is not connected to the internet in any way; I made triple-sure of that. The only access to the footage is on certain monitors within this house.”
By now, Cynthia/Madam had returned to where we two stood.
“Don’t worry, Meat,” she said with a sneer, reminding me that we were in the middle of a role-play scenario.
“The video of your torture and training won’t hit the Web for perverts to jack off to. Only your potential owners will get to see it, to help them evaluate your worth as a sex slave. I might sell this bitch as well. She's nice, but I’m getting a bit tired of her.”
As if to apologize for the slight, Zia got a kiss. A deep, lingering, erotic kiss from her Dominatrix. In real life, from her mother.
(Damn. For a second, I thought, Geez, ladies, get a room. Then I remembered we were already in a room made for this kind of activity.)
Cynthia made us slowly rotate to display our bodies for the cameras. With her high platform pumps, Beth and I were now nearly the same height, which was a novel treat for me. Her nipples brushed sensually against mine, and my cock kept rubbing against her pelvis, agonizingly close to her lubricated pussy and ass.
“You two look absolutely delicious,” Madam purred as she groped us. “Not as good as I do, of course. But if we add some whip-marks and reddened asscheeks to your skin, you two might bring in some serious offers.”
