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BrutalDreads -> a Queendom Fantasy with Paranormal/sci-fi leanings - 3rd installment (11/26/2010 11:52:47 AM)
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Happy Thanksgiving, Perverts:
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Ayala neatly folded her hunting garb and closed the trunk tight, saving only the voice. Despite the coldness of her tiny stone room, Ayala hesitated to dress. She glanced at herself in the mirror and for just one brief moment saw a delicate hourglass shape poured into a frame of white, a bush of hair fiercely flaming up from the center, no different from any of the towns-women, no different from all the unobtainable women who sparked wars with their beauty. But innocence was not the stuff of Ayala’s work. Ayala’s work was to wrap her body as tightly as possible within a whalebone and leather corset to show them just how tightly her hourglass shape could be cinched. Ayala’s work meant leaving her shoulders and breasts bare as both the front and back laces were adjusted by the nimble, attentive fingers of the Queen’s shemale. Ayala’s work meant pulling on the long black skirts and bustle as the shemale’s expression fell to an almost whimper. “Speak, Manala. Surely your knees are accustomed enough to our floors that they do not ache from groveling.”
“No,” The shemale responded sweetly, “It’s just . . . I never get used to the sight of you, Master of the Chamber.” She said, turning her head away, hands folded neatly in her lap as she lowered buttocks to heels. “May I also help you with your boots? Are you wearing the high ones this time?”
“Yes, I am wearing the high ones, and yes I require your assistance. What a question, really Manala.”
“One beneath you cannot assume, Master. Having been in the Queen’s charge so long, it’s hard to remember the protocol sometimes.” She said, fluttering her heavy lashes, her eyes downcast, barely hiding the tiny black tears leaking through her heavy makeup.
“Careful what you say, Manala. We are both in her charge.”
“No Master. Forgive me. I carry no disrespect for the Queen in my privilege of speech, it’s just . . . . “
“She is not me. Is that what you mean to say?”
The shemale’s eyes shot up to Ayala, whites plainly showing in the dark room. Her mouth trembled. The oily black tears that had barely budded past her lashes now streaked down her cheeks. She bent her body to the floor and laid her head against the tops of Ayala’s bare feet, synthetic pony tail with hair as straight and smooth as silk spilling over her legs. She reverently flattened her arms and hands to the floor as Ayala laid back on the bed, drawing her feet upward. “Is it true? Will he really be your last?”
Ayala lifted her skirts to the thigh and reached for the boots. “Yes, Manala. He shall be the last. And what a way to end it all! He shall be a great challenge!”
“Oh, but Master . . . “ Manala said, raising up on her knees, placing a well manicured hand upon Ayala’s thigh, “If you leave, all will be lost for me! I want so badly to follow you to your domain, to be a servant there as I have been here . . . “
“Fit the boots, Manala.”
Manala swallowed the lump in her throat and sank back down. She placed the arch of her Master’s foot against the mound of her thumb and fitted the pointed toes of the boots neatly around the natural shape of her toes. With a gentle shove she slid Ayala’s heel into high arch, smoothing the long leather flaps against the graceful bow of her legs. Her fingers worked as nimble as a spider’s to lace them the great distance up Ayala’s leg, over the thin ankles and up to where the legs subtly widen to form the smooth mound of her calve, to the sudden thinning at the knee and up to the thigh where Ayala, looking with a wicked smile down to her servant, parted her legs for the shemale to see. Manala gasped, loosing mastery of her craft, lacing and relacing the last four grommets as her focus waned. Ayala raised her booted foot against the leather chastity belt of the shemale, pressing hard as her servant seemed lifted to heaven by the sensation. “Fit the other one.”
Manala’s hand trembled as she felt the floor for the other boot, selfishly savoring the feeling of the lacy bridges of Ayala’s boots rubbing against her long imprisoned sex. She licked her lips before biting them as she once again took Ayala’s foot in her hand, taking the risky liberty of running her thumb along the wrinkly sole of her Master’s foot before commiting them to the boot. She speedily attempted to lace the boot without stopping, braiding the long laces in and out and between each other, fully aware that their equivalent on the other leg was now illiciting a kind of wetness within the cage that would surely bring the wrath of the queen down on her back, later, in her chamber, while they were alone with the whips. The laces became shorter and shorter until they reached the top rung, which Manala finished with a pretty bow even as she became nearly breathless with excitement. Ayala grabbed Manala by the ring on her collar and brought her close, the fullness of her breasts swallowing Manala’s tiny buds within the natural, generous mass of her flesh. “Fetch me the mask.”
Manala jumped to her feet, clumsily wobbling to the wardrobe. The black mask—the sight of it took her through the many years of being preened at her Master’s hand in the chamber, back to when it seemed to foreign, so strange, to be permitted to explore the beauty of women’s clothes, to be swathed in the rich luxury of lipstick and eye shadow, to be held tightly in the merciless feminity of hosiery even as she still held memories of being a gangly, wretched, boy of the forest. She secretly passed the worn leather mask near her nose as she pulled it from the high drawer before turning to Ayala, who towered over her servant as she stood in the high boots. Manala approached with her head bowed in reverence, fitting the mask over Ayala’s face and neck as she gathered her hair up and away from the laces. “I know the voice does not permit you to speak, Master . . .” Manala whispered as she quickly braided the laces through the grommets until they reached the hairline, “But how else may I serve you?”
Ayala pulled her thin leather gloves all the way up to her bare elbows as the shemale faced her, trembling, head hanging as if overcome with shame. She narrowed her eyes, clenched her hands and pointed one long, wicked finger to the floor and the shemale obediently dropped to her knees. With both hands she raised the thick skirts up her master’s thighs and tucked her chin in between, neck craning upward, her collar barely hiding the adam’s apple, her chastity belt barely restraining the growing hardness as she pressed her face into the soft patch of hair between her Master’s legs. Taking in the full perfume of her Master’s scent, the shemale darted her tongue into the cleft, touching the clit with the tip of it, dragging it down with long luxurious laps as the bud hardened. She raised her long hands up her Master’s backside and pressed her narrow face further up, her chin touching that tightening spot, that flowing wet place that all the training, all the conditioning, all the forced feminization ultimately could not extinguish the lust for--to be deep inside, surrounded by, sucked by, squeezed by, received by her velvety tightness, cleansed by the falling moisture, bathed in the richest scent of her fertile readiness.
Ayala held fast to the rings on Manala’s collar with both hands as her far-reaching tongue rubbed fast and greedily. Her breathing quickened as the strikes of the shemale’s tongue sent bolts of sensation throughout her forest-weary body. Ayala closed her eyes and surrendered herself to the bed. With a subtle hand she smoothed over Ayala’s thigh, turning it upward as she entered two fingers into the pink, wet center. Ayala arched her back as the shemale’s long, thin fingers stroked the inside in time with the strikes of her tongue, the muscle inside becoming stiffer, threatening to come. She took a sharp breath through her nostrils and Manala dug her nails into her hips, pressing her face forward, knowing what was to come next, trying desperately to keep her ears pressed against the insides of Ayala’s thigh, loosing place of the clit in her desperate attempt not hear. She opened her jaw as wide as it would go, matching the wet mouth beneath her face, dipping her tongue low over the hole, dragging it up to the fleshly ridges that were tightly gathering around the clit.
“Enough” Ayala said with a low murmur of the voice.
The shemale snapped up on her knees and closed her mouth tightly, her breasts raising high and tight , her eyes wide with fear, her expression teetering on the brink of devastation. “Please, please Master!! I’ll do anything!”
Ayala stood up from the bed and allowed her skirts to fall, moving past the shemale even as she brazenly grabbed the fabric. “You’ll ruin the work.” She coolly growled, pushing the shemale to the floor as the voice once again brought about a undeniable, primordial shudder, a sound that confounded her senses, a sound that left her helpless on the stone floor as Ayala passed from the bedroom, alone, to the chamber down the hall, to do the work of the Queen’s bidding
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