Professional Femdom Slavers
Whipping men is good fun. Even pleasure can be tiring.
One Mistress, overheated, sipped water. She and her partner went to prepare a light supper.
Unconscious, the man across the punishment bench would not wake for hours. About 4am, he would discover himself shackled, helpless and uncomfortable. Aching scar tissue would distract him from worrying about his fate.
He fainted from pain. The women lashed him with canes, quirts, whips, tawses and a steel-tipped flogger. The last knocked him out.
A loud man, at first he yelled defiantly. Then shrieked in pain. Sounds of desperation dwindled to whimpers.
The blonde Domme admonished him. Whippings were part of his new lifestyle. If slavery is a lifestyle.
Freedom had ended. Friends and family would wonder what happened. Slowly they would forget. His birth name was irrelevant. His new Mistress Owner might give him one. Or an ID number.
Some women called their slaves with terms of abuse. His new name might be ‘scum’ one day and ‘worthless’ the next.
On the second morning, they thrust him under an icy shower. Unfed, thirsty, he begged for food. Ignoring his pleading, the Dommes locked him on the punishment bench. Now his body was oriented face up.
The women spat on him. Cursed him. Whipped his stomach, chest, thighs and arms. Slits and bruises covered his upper body. Even knowing it was useless, his brain forced him to beg for mercy. His tormentors giggled.
They left for lunch. A lull in torment gave no relief. Every bruise and cut hurt.
The Dommes returned. One held a large baby bottle. She forced the nipple into his mouth. He sucked in a chalky, gooey mixture. A nasty nutritional mix? He blushed in shame.
Revived by the liquid, he looked at his captors with fresh interest. Beautiful women. Beautiful cruel women. Why did they hurt him? What was this talk of slavery?
With unspoken harmony the Dommes played with his head. Once jerked his hair. Another pinched an earlobe with her fingernails.
Each spanked one of his cheeks. He tried to scream when a clamp bit into his tongue. But produced only a garbled groan.
They covered his face with a rubber mask. Both women pressed down firmly. He could not breathe. Panic was futile. Chained, he could not resist.
The mask was lifted. He felt dizzy and terrified. Terror of death left him limp. He spoke.
“Please. I’m sorry. Please, I’ll do whatever you want. Don’t hurt me anymore.”
“Sorry? For what?”
“I thought so. You should feel sorry for being a man.”
“Don’t hurt you? Don’t be silly.”
“Your training has just begin. For one thing, you need to learn to never beg for mercy.”
She turned to her partner.
“I think it’s time for the barbwire.”
The women grinned. Wrapping a man in barbwire is a joy.