bondage

Catheter Arts: put it in to let it out

Those who follow my musings know that I have a fetish for all things urethral. Piss games like target practice, forced consumption, toilet slavery, golden enema, bladder control, and on to more precise practices like sounding, figging, and urethral stretching.

Catheter play is a twisted merry game, and it can be done as a standalone practice or as part of a longer scene. If you’ve been sounded you’ll know that the feeling of a slender object snaking up your urethra is incredible, intensely pleasurable, and stimulating for the prostate. Once it’s secured in you, imagine how much it would heighten pleasure for other play.

It’s quite an ordeal of medical paraphernalia, laying the sterile Sheet of Dignity over your freshly swabbed and cleansed junk, lubricating the equipment, feeding it through into the bladder and inflating the bubble to keep it in, and securing the leg bag. The bag fills – you don’t get to decide when you are going to urinate because this little tube does it all for you.

From there, I might carry on flaying you, going deeper into medical play. Needles, staples, sutures… I can go into more detail when we meet, I don’t want to frighten the sissies away from reading the rest of this.

I put you in extended bondage. You are immobile, unable to touch yourself. Perhaps you are kept in a cage overnight as I sleep soundly in the king bed upstairs.

Or maybe we go out in public, and you squirm with hot embarrassment in lacy knickers and catheter tubing under your everyday clothes. Imagine dinner across form me as I gently torment you, urging you to drink more water.

And then, a test of your devotion in an act of submissive debasement. The bag is full, but how could we waste such a precious collection? It’s got to go back in, one hole or another. I might let you flip a coin to seal your fate.

Want to try it? Break the golden seal. Come get cath’d.

 

 

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Office Bullies: A Modern Slave Training (Part 3)

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Starry-eyed with tears, he gathered cleaning supplies from a cupboard in the corridor. As he scurried back with his head down, he collided straight on with a woman carrying an enormous stack of papers which flew into the air in a blizzard of invoices and receipts. He dropped to the floor and frantically grasped at the pages.

A slender, freckled hand touched his shoulder, he looked up from his hands and knees at an achingly beautiful woman, her eyes large with concern. “Don’t worry about it, we’ll do it together.” She knelt down beside him. “Here, it’s no trouble, we’ll get it all neat and ordered soon.” He flinched away from her and grabbed at another dozen muddled pages. She touched him again. Her lips parted and she smiled gently. “Really,” she insisted, “it’s alright. It didn’t even take that long to get straightened out the first time.”

“Helena, what are you doing?” Miss Hart called out from her office.

“Miss Hart I’ll have this all cleaned up in a moment, sorry.”

The CEO stood above Nick. “Why are you helping that boy? He made a mess, it’s his job to clean up messes he makes.”

A small crowd of employees had started to form near them, gleeful spectators hoping for a scuffle.

“Helena, get up. Remember our chat? Protocol is vital.”

Helena blushed. She stood slowly and deliberately adjusted her shirt.

“Marvellous. Now, lots of us are going out for lunch in a moment, and it would be wonderful if you joined us. It’ll give you a chance to meet everyone properly.”

They ignored Nick as he crouched at their polished shoes, the entire staff crowding in, all of them laughing and chatting, their legs around him like bars in a cell. There was no way he could finish his task without pushing against their warm silk-enrobed flesh, squeezing through to grasp at the last wisps of paper fluttering across the floor. Moira’s velvet thigh pressed against his arm, Miss Hart’s sharp heels nearly pierced his finger, and everywhere hemlines shifted and stocking tops showed.

In the din of the conversation, Miss Hart’s mouth was hot at his ear, her fingers sliding down his collar. “Now, you’ve done nothing to deserve this, but you’re coming with us to lunch. After all, we can’t leave you here without supervision.” She didn’t need to see his face to feel his yearning. Her hand closed around the back of his neck and he sank towards the floor, the paper stack slumped in his arms.

Audra drove the SUV, leading the convoy to the restaurant. Nick was strapped in the middle front seat between her and Moira, who was engrossed in slowly uncrossing and recrossing her legs and feeling her tights. He could glance into the rearview mirror to see five other women squashed into the back seats, talking business while loosening their shirts after a long morning at work.

They pulled into an alleyway. A door in the wall opened out and they all slipped inside to a long dingy corridor. Echoes of whispers and footsteps as they filed through, descending twisting stairs and confusing corners. Nick was flanked by Audra on one side and Moira on the other, armlocked. At last, a seam of light outlining a door came into view.

The room: a polished floor and sliding wooden doors flush with the deep red walls, a heavy marble slab for the table, thick benches on the long sides and a tall chair at the head. A row of silent male servants lined up against the far wall, standing straight and still.

The women poured in, and Nick was sat next to Helena, with Audra as a looming bodyguard on his other side. It was a tight fit to get the whole company round the table, twenty women in all, with Miss Hart at the head, reclining back in the leather-backed chair.

The servants filled water glasses, which were quickly drained. As they reached to refill glasses, light glinted off metal bands around their wrists and beneath their shirt collars. The meals were served quickly, and Nick’s place was bare.

Audra threw her head back and laughed when his stomach growled loudly, elbowing his ribs.“Skinny boy, you haven’t eaten today, have you. Hungry now? And you sweat so much, so nervous.” She gestured to her plate. He started to reach over but she rapped his knuckles with the flat of her knife. “Dirty hands don’t touch anything of mine. Filth.” She went back to eating, and Nick squashed his hands between his knees.

Then Helena’s fork fell from her place and clattered under the table. The company quietened and eyes bore down on him. “Helena dropped her fork, Nick.” Miss Hart said, languidly dripping lemon juice onto an oyster and slipping it down her throat. “Floor, now. Pick it up.”

He squirmed off the bench and under the table, dark and cramped. He crawled to retrieve the fork, and a foot touched his back. A heel pressed into his shoulder and then a kick landed square on his arse and a tumult of shoves, pushes and jabs all over his body. He covered his face to make it to where it lay, grabbed it and fought his way out on his knees and elbows, dodging blows from stiletto heels on all sides in the dark. Helena’s face beamed down at him and he polished the fork with a corner of his shirt. He offered it up to her and she grabbed it, clutching his hand.

“you tedious cunt, get on your feet.” The shape of Miss Hart loomed behind Helena, her finger stabbing at his face. “You’re off-task and slow. So tiresome and dull. Hurry up.”

He stumbled over the chair and brushed his knees off briskly. Miss Hart grabbed him by the tie and frogmarched him into a room through a door that had silently opened.

It snicked shut behind him and they were cloaked in pitch darkness. Her heels slowly pacing around him echoed in the shapeless space.

“Nick.” A fingernail lightly dragged from his ear down his neck. “Let’s talk about your work ethic.”

“Yes Miss Hart, thank you.” A sharp heavy slap landed on his face that burst silver stars in his eyes, spit flying out of his mouth.

“Don’t interrupt me with your snivelling niceties. You speak only when you are explicitly invited. Do you understand?”

He was silent. A sharp kick landed just missing his balls. “Do. You. Understand?”

“Yes Miss Hart,” he squeaked.

“You worked hard this morning.” She circled him still, her hands crawling up his body, unbuttoning, unzipping, peeling his clothes slowly away. “There were quite a few tests for you. I’m telling the agency that you’ve done well, and that we’re going to keep you for a while longer. And I think you want that, telling by those goosebumps.”

He stood naked in front of her, feeling her heat, the softness of her clothing. His body vibrated. She raked her fingers through his hair. “I can’t imagine you’ve ever been treated so appallingly in your life, actually, with how flustered you got. But my gang of mean, powerful women stirs something deeply curious in you, doesn’t it?” Her grip tightened on his hair and she wrenched his head back. “Doesn’t it, Nick?” she growled in his ear.

“Yes Miss. Thank you for saying I’ve done well, Miss.”

“You’re welcome.”

“May I speak freely, Miss?”

“Quickly, then.” Her fist pulled his head back further and he gasped.

“Only that, and sorry, but that I’m happy you want to keep me on. And, ow, that I hope I have pleased you and your colleagues, Miss.”

“Are you done?” Her nails grazed his throat again and his head stretched back even further.

“Ah, yes Miss.” She released her hold and he stumbled forward. She pulled his neck down and he fell onto his hands and knees, and still she pressed his head further to the floor so his bare ass was up and his ear touched her shoe. She swiftly fastened a buckled leather strip around his neck, and the tinkle of a small lock danced at the front.

“We need to make sure you are true to your word. Your contract states the terms of your employment, but what does paper promise? Words can be broken, but bodies show true loyalty.”

Something cold and hard nudged at his hole, and suddenly his body opened up and swallowed a gigantic steel ball. Miss Hart swiftly attached the end of the anal hook to the ring at his collar. His face bore a look of pure bewilderment, her favourite expression on a man.

She entered into a focussed trance as she dressed him, fitting his legs into snug leggings with kneepads and straps for the ankle to connect to the thigh. When she clipped them, his legs drew up so he was forced to rest uncertainly on his knees. Wrists clamped to shoulders, a meagre padding at the elbows. Snaking twin belts from the tips of his toes, under his body and crossing at his ribs, to come up under the shoulder and clip with perfect tension onto the collar. Stuck. A creature born from leather and metal, forced to walk painfully on elbows and knees. She shoved his head down to the ground and he yelped, the hook yanking his guts.

“I want your mind completely gone. I want you to disappear. Here.” A hood slid over his head, laces and straps strained tight.  Gagged, bound, hooked and disfigured.

She unzipped the hole for his mouth. “What a pretty predicament you’re in, you funny pet. How are you feeling?”

He opened his mouth to answer and she pushed a gigantic rubber ball in, stretching his jaw past its flexibility. “You only need to nod or shake your head to answer. So, how are you feeling?”

He nodded his head slowly, whimpering with each tug of the hook.

“Good, wonderful. You’re starting to look like you finally fit in here.” She lifted his chin to meet her eyes and smiled at him with genuine kindness.

“Let’s go for a little walk, shall we?”

He dribbled.

“Good boy.”

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Read the final instalment HERE

*The final part of this story is password-protected. Send a request to unlock it misstressisobelhart@gmail.com

My Predilections

Remember when I did an elegant, hot, weird photo shoot with Maron de Sade? And how they held difficult poses for a long time while I adjusted strands of their hair and made sure their frills were ruffled just enough? Oh you don’t? I should think this will remind you.

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It’s all becoming clear now, isn’t it. Memories of your own desires are pushing their way into the light.

This shot stirs something in me, the sinuous lines of our bodies not touching but shaped to connect. They’re bending back to move away from my cane but thrusting forward in helpless submission to the pleasure that comes from this whole game.

Take in the staggering beauty before you.

 

Wet And Messy (and satirical) Dairy Humiliation Torture

I open the door to the accessible toilet at the cheap and cheerful Canadian coffee shop on the corner and to my fiendish delight, you are still there where I left you, tied up with plastic string to the baby changing table, spider gag installed keeping your mouth forced open, your dribble pooling into an already rolled-up rim cardboard cup. It’s stifling and hot in this tiny room. You look up at me as best as your head will allow, bound in a web of packaging sting as you are, and inhale sharply when you catch sight of my pure white blouse, my starched cap, my braided hair shimmering under the fluorescent light. It is as though my splendid milky purity dazzles the linoleum tiles, and you must stop from swooning.

Without a word, I plop a package on my lap and slowly unwrap this first item. A heavy, warm wheel of brie, as big as my hand, thick and quivering with calcium and fat. You gargle piteously. I take it to mean, “please, sweet maid, all of it!” As you wish, little goose. I push the soft, squishy cheese into your mouth, liquid enough to simply open your throat and allow it to slip down.

Gravity takes its time, and so I get to unwrapping individual CheeseWhizzes from the bulk packet I found on the street. With great care I move the Cheeze sticks into your nostrils, your ears, and lovingly roll the remainder into your body hair.

Humming to myself, I set to work on filing a lump of aged parmesan into a butt plug. I dip it into your spit cup and apply a stiff twisting technique to fit it into your cavity.

You are quite a sight. I take out a sketch pad and pencil, and fuss over a smudgy little drawing for the time it takes all the cheeses to acclimatize to your body heat. Poor goose, restrained and force fed, plugged up and helpless. But that look on your bulging, sweating face tells me that you can’t get enough of being a dairy slut. I’ve captured the expression in my sketch; I’m rather pleased with how it turned out.

I open the door and prop it open. Your thick moans of embarrassment and alarm are drowned out by a restless crowd of men who burst in carrying buckets spilling over with yogurt, cheesecake, pavlova, and scrambled egg. They rush you, surrounding you in the clamour of dairy products. You gurgle and shriek; your brie gag bubbles. They are banging their buckets, waiting for my call. The mob of dairy men are consumed with feverish lust for the finale. You try to look away but I pull your eyes back, and I shout, “Pour!”

And the buckets flow. On your face, all down your neck and chest, your belly, on top of your head, trickling down the gutters of your body, pooling in your dips, seeping into the folds of your flesh. The entire coffee shop is watching, since there was so much noise.

The deed is done. The men discard their buckets and file out, an air of subdued satisfaction around them. I am the last one out, and before I turn the light out and shut the door I take a look back. Dripping with milkiness, chunks of dairy-rich edibles running rivulets down your body, your eyes meet mine. You look pathetic, abused, and absolutely dazzling.