"Sit down there."
She pointed to the sofa. I stumbled across the room and sat down; my legs were numb.
"Give me your feet," she commanded.
Miss. Priscilla knelt down in front of me and with her clever, skilful hands, she massaged my ankles, taking the stiffness out of my joints in a moment or two.
"There! Now the pretty things won't swell up," she said.
"Oh, thank you, Miss. Priscilla," I said gratefully. Tears welled in my eyes.
"Stand up, Denise!"
I obeyed. She unhooked my dress at the back, after undoing the second set of straps. Then feeling under my cache-corsets he loosened my corset laces. Oh, what a joy it was to draw in a deep breath, to be relieved of the constriction about my waist and of the painful binding about my hips.
Then, to my dismay, I felt my drawers slipping down, revealing my little leather pouch. In loosening my corset laces, Miss. Priscilla had, by mistake I thought, untied the strings of my pantalets. I felt a delicacy in mentioning the fact to her. I pressed my thighs together and held the pantalets up at my knees. It was very uncomfortable. But I should soon have my hands untied, I hoped, and I could then slip upstairs and rearrange myself. Suddenly however I felt a violent tug.
"Draw in your breath, Denise, and expel it! That is right," and Miss. Priscilla drew in my corsets tighter than ever, and tied the laces.
"Oh, it's worse than before," I moaned. Yet the familiar confinement was somehow reassuring.
"Hold your tongue," she answered in her calm, cold voice, "or I'll lace you up in stay laces from your neck to the tips of your satin slippers." What a terribly delicious threat! She hooked up my dress, readjusted my sash about my waist, and suddenly thrust her hand inside my skirt.
"Where are the frills of your drawers?" As she said this mockingly, she took a firm hold of my cock encased in its precious leather singlet.
"Open your legs, Denise." As she yelled this at me, she pulled my drawers down to my ankles. Clearly, it was not a mistake that she had untied the strings of my pantalets. She had meant to do it.
Miss. Priscilla backed away from me, and sat down upon the sofa, sedately smoothing her silk skirt over her knees. Then she drew on her long glace kid shining gloves with deliberate languor. Her eyes never left my compromised and humiliated body exposed before her.
"Come to me, Denise," she said calmly.
I shuffled forward shamefacedly, my pantalets clogging my ankles and lace frills frothing about my satin slippers in the most untidy fashion. When I reached Miss. Priscilla's side, she seized me with sudden effort, and flung me across her knees face down.
"Oh, Miss. Priscilla," I cried startled out of my wits. "What are you going to do to me?" Without answering me, she took up my skirt with its long train and turning it back, heaped the rich satin folds about my back. My thighs and my buttocks were completely exposed.
I protested, my cheeks fiery with shame.
"I am going to slap your striped bottom," said Miss. Priscilla, as calmly as if she were in the habit of doing it every day. "I am going to teach you not to complain."
"But, Miss. Priscilla, you yourself admitted that the steel fetters were too cruel."
"I didn't admit that your corset was too tight, or that your pretty heels were too high."
She began to pinch the white flesh of my buttocks between her kid-gloved fingers.
"Oh, Miss. Priscilla, remember that I am eighteen," I protested weakly.
"You must first remember it yourself dear, and not behave as if you were six."
She raised her gloved hand and brought it down with a resounding slap upon my quivering, naked bottom. I could not endure it. The kid glove stung my tender flesh, but the childlike character of the chastisement stung my soul. I lashed out with my legs, trying to kick my feet free from the delicate fetters of my batiste drawers. But the frills clung about my toes, and caught on the high heels and diamond buckles of my shoes.
Despite the rawness of my flesh, which had so recently been ravaged under Helen's vicious hand, the fresh pain of Miss. Priscilla's gloved hand coming down upon my naked bruised skin sent ripples of secret delight coursing through my blood.
"Oh, you nasty thing! You like this, don't you?" Miss. Priscilla cried.
She continued to laugh ruthlessly as she plunged her hands between my helpless thighs. Without compunction, she took my cock in her hands and gave it a healthy squeeze, which caused my prick to engorge almost instantly. And then she proceeded to do something even more audacious: She released the little straps of my leather "glove" and clasped my naked sex in her agile hands. The sensation of the cool, buttery leather glove against my most tender flesh caused me to moan out loud.
"Oh yes," she hissed in my ear, as she leaned closer to me. "You have the best of both worlds, don't you?"
As I lay helplessly across her lap, I realized that she was right.
"You have the perfected beauty of a woman, and the ability to completely satisfy a woman's desire. Oh yes," she cooed, her hand stroking me all the while, "you are lucky to have such a pretty little cock, aren't you."
I could not answer her, so great was my pleasure. I do not think that she wanted me to answer either. I felt that she was talking as much to herself as she was to me. The only sound that came from my lips were low moans of shameful pleasure. I was in hideous raptures under the dominating presence of Miss. Priscilla. Without meaning to respond so lasciviously, my hips began to grind against the soft silk of her dress, and the soft creamy leather of her gloved hand. It was beyond my control; I could not help responding to the delights she offered.
"Oh yes," she moaned hoarsely, and it was then that I realized that this bizarre tableau of reversal was affording her as much pleasure as it was giving me! It was a great revelation to learn that my subjugation and humiliation caused a reciprocal pleasure in Miss. Priscilla's loins.
"Yes, yes, my pretty little Denise," she whispered softly, "you are a disgusting, naughty girl. Oh, yes, yes. That's right. You like being a naughty girl, don't you."
She went on speaking in a distracted, low voice as she tortured my cock with her lovely hands. Soon, I had reached a proper frenzy and feared that I would shoot my spunk all over Miss. Priscilla's evening gown.
"Oh, Miss. Priscilla," I moaned. "I am going to… to… I am going to ruin my dress. Oh! Oh!"
As I writhed on her lap, moving closer and closer to the edge of a shattering climax, Miss. Priscilla brought her free hand down with a hard slap, her leather-gloved hand meeting with the soft flesh of my buttocks in a resounding clap. The mixture of stinging pain and the hot, delicious strokes of pleasure that she continued to give my prick
confused me. I was falling into utter madness under the hypnotic, wild caresses of the woman. I cried out, making unintelligible sounds of ecstasy.
"Don't climax, Denise!" I heard Miss. Priscilla shout. Her voice seemed far away, and her command seemed impossible to obey. I felt as if I was already falling into the blissful realm of orgasmic pleasure.
"Whatever you do, don't allow yourself to fall into that pleasure," sighed Miss. Priscilla. It sounded as if she were in the midst of falling herself, judging by her low moaning sounds, and the slight gyrations of her hips against mine.
Before I knew it, I realized that Miss. Priscilla had asked too much of me, and I was reaching a point of indescribable panic and pleasure. After all the delicious tortures I had endured, my mistress was requesting the impossible. An excruciating moment passed, and then without attempting to hold back any more, I allowed my seed to shoot wildly. The release of the hot load was as if I had fallen into a savage abyss of black joy.
I heard Miss. Priscilla draw in her breath very sharply, and I felt her body quiver and rattle beneath my own. She cried out, making a sharp high sound that I had never heard her make, and then she released her tight grip on my sex and fell back against the chair.