Femdom | BDSM | Erotica | Short Fiction | Non-Con | Piss

Mistress Arabella: Piss and Punishment

It’s not so bad, there are far worse things she could do to you.

Part Two of Mistress Arabella

Sleep didn’t come easy. It never did, unless Mistress Arabella was impressed enough with you to grant you the luxury. She, however, was impossible to impress. She had no mercy, held no quarter, and had no interest in appealing to the wants and desires of her property, which now included… you, and had done so for close to a week now.

The tattoo that read Property of Mistress Arabella, just an inch above your pathetic, caged cock, itched slightly, and the surrounding skin was a dark shade of red. She had previously assured you that it was normal, and it would heal quite nicely in time. Your cock aches from the involuntary night boners that were so harshly suppressed by the metal walls of the chastity cage padlocked tight. You were almost used to seeing it, and almost used to feeling it — but she promised you that you’d never be completely used to having your cock locked behind bars.

Your arms hurt too, having been handcuffed to the metal bar about a foot above your head. The cold tiles under your ass had warmed overnight. She’d kept you chained up in her shower for over a day now, and still, you had no idea why, or what she intended to do with you. All you knew was that, for the time you had been secured, she had been ‘out’.

You hear her footsteps approaching. Loud, heavy, clunking thuds as she approaches, slowly, intentionally, to make you nervous, scared. The bathroom door swings open, the lights flicker on and blind you temporarily.

“Morning, you pathetic piece of shit.” She smirks. As the temporary blindness subsides, you see her before you. On her feet; platform boots giving her an extra four or five inches in height. She’s wearing a black leather leotard, with black string crisscrossing all the way from her beautiful cleavage, down her narrow waist, past her cunt, and ending someplace where the crotch of her outfit disappears in her ass. Black, elbow-length gloves adorn her slender fingers. Her eyes, almost smoky in color, pierce your very soul, and you feel every shred of confidence, of strength, whisk away like leaves in a strong breeze.

“Good morning, Mistress.” You whimper, noticing the rubber flogger in her hand.

“Sleep well?” Her voice is so cold, so unforgiving.

“No Mistress.”

“Good.” She drops a handful of items on the floor and opens the shower door. “Eyes up.”

Almost instinctively, your gaze meets hers as she looms over you. Whatever courage, or whim of defiance you had, is gone as your eyes lock with hers. You don’t even feel worthy to stare into her eyes, not anymore.

She lifts her booted foot, and arches it over your leash, which is tied to a steel loop embedded in the wall. Her feet are either side of your naked legs now, and as you stare up at her, you know her cunt is mere inches from your face. You can smell it. You can feel the heat from it, but you are not allowed to look. You feel a strain in your cage, a twitch of arousal that feels so wrong, so forbidden, so fucked up.

Her fingers move southwards and begin to untie the ladder of string that binds her outfit together. The warmth of her cunt is now so obvious, the smell is so potent. Whatever she plans to do right now, she is excited about it, aroused by it.

“Eyes up slave!” she commands, noticing your gaze faltering. You obey, and watch as she spits a huge wad of saliva on her hand. You can do nothing as she smears it all across your face, ensuring it coats all of you. Her smile is conniving, yet stands still, with her hands on her hips, until she gently arches her waist forward.

A sudden wet warmth trickles onto your chest, and the sound of running water fills your ears. Her smile broadens, and her stream intensifies. You refuse to break eye contact, even as her warm shower saturates your shrunken, caged manhood. The humiliation swells up in you, you feel your stomach tighten and your mind spin. You whimper, but you wish to scream. You know you can’t, she’ll punish you if you do.

“Fuck, you’re pathetic,” She spits, and directs her stream from your body to your face. Her piss sprays across your lips, your eyes, your cheeks, your nose. Its warmth spreads all over, and even into your mouth.

“Don’t dare to swallow any, bitch.” So, you don’t. You hold her warm, bitter piss in your mouth, letting it soak so disgustingly into your palette. Your mouth fills and fills and fills, yet you keep staring into her cold, merciless eyes. Her urine overflows from your lips and dribbles down your chin. You beg for it to end with tired, weak whimpers. The taste makes your face sour up, and your brow furrow.

“You’d better like it.” She scowls. “You know what happens to slaves who dislike what I do to them…” You know all too well. You know the second she thinks you hate the taste of her piss; you’re destined to become her toilet. You know the moment she realizes you despise being trampled is the moment she turns you into her doormat. You whimper an affirmation, pretending to love the hot, bitter, tangy taste of her magnificent body’s waste.

Finally, after what has felt like an eternity, the last of her piss dribbles from her, and onto your face.

“Swallow.” she demands.

So, you do. You close your mouth, and the hot, ammonia taste of your owner’s excretion burns your throat and nose. She smiles wickedly as you gulp it down, and her eyes follow her piss’s path down your throat, to your stomach.

“You took that surprisingly well.”

“Thank you, Mistress.”

Smack! Her open palm strikes you across the face. “Shut the fuck up! I did not give you permission to talk!” Whatever favor you’d just won over with your performance is now gone. Your cheek flushes red as the pain radiates across.

“Fucking pathetic loser.” She scoffs. “Can you not even follow the basic, fucking rules?” Again, you whimper as her piss starts to dry on your skin.

“Answer me!” She bellows as she angrily turns the shower on. Cold, icy water barrages down onto you, and you instinctively shriek and twitch and struggle to get away from the frosty deluge, but you cannot. The flow stops for a moment, and you shudder in relief.

“I said answer me!” More freezing water. Your body seizes up in the cold blast. Chill permeates through your body, you scream and moan and complain, and Goddess Arabella just stands there with her arms folded, displaying no intent on relieving you of your frosty torment.

“I’m waiting!” To add to your woes, she begins to lash at you with her whip. The strikes leave trails of red against your skin, and make you jump and yelp. Thwack!

“I can!” You scream, desperate for her to turn the shower off. “I can follow the rules!” Thwack! Thwack! The torrent of whippings is almost as relentless as the icy water.

“Oh yeah?” She snidely remarks, standing calmly, as though completely unfazed by your agony. “Tell me the three basic tenets of being my property.” The cold makes it nearly impossible to think. Adrenaline surges through your veins, trying so hopelessly to keep your body temperature up.

“Speak only when allowed to!” You shriek, each word permeated with panic.

“Rule two?”

“Obey Mistress Arabella in all things!”

“And the third one?” She smirks with evil intent. “Hurry up! You must be so cold right now!”

“I have no rights! All my choices are made for me!”

“Fucking pathetic.” Finally, she turns off the tap. The cold water stops, leaving you to shiver on the floor. Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Your thighs sting from her painful strikes.

“Awh. Look at you.” She pouts as she leans over. Her boots give her legs an extra few inches of perceived length. Her thighs look magnificent, and you feel reverence for the majesty of her body — out of fear, mostly.

“Are you cold?” Mistress mocks you. You nod, your body shivers uncontrollably. Arabella shrugs with her lips, and her lips curl into a crooked grin. She steps back, observing you as though your suffering was a work of art. After a moment, as if a switch flicks in her head, her persona changes. In a heartbeat, she moves from a sadistic snarl to an unenthused expression, like that of a businesswoman who simply wants her day to end.

She speaks not a word as she throws off her leotard and kicks off her boots. This is the first time you’ve seen her wholly naked. Mistress Arabella may be a demon dredged up from the depths of hell itself, but she was, undeniably, one stunning piece of hell spawn. Even you; bound to her shower, freezing cold, tattooed with her mark and doomed to never cum again, had to admit it.

Her legs were full, soft with delicate fat, but beneath, hid muscle so strong that she could shatter skulls with her thighs. Her backside was round, shapely, the sort of ass any man would worship, even outside of duress. Her smooth stomach demanded attention; to be kissed and licked and eaten off, and her breasts, plump and hefty, stole your attention and fought hard to keep it. She turned to you and stepped into the shower.

She says nothing as she spins about, pulls her cheeks wide, and plants her thick, divine asshole on your face. Your cock spurts a pathetic jet of pre-cum out of the slot in your cage. She ensures your face is well and truly stuffed in her crack. You try to breathe, and your lungs are filled with two distinct scents. That of her arousal, and that of her ass.

“Clean me,” She demands casually.

Your tongue sticks out as you inhale a lungful of her scent, and you drag it slowly up her crack. The tight latex leotard had evidently ensured a powerful, musky odor, and a taste to boot. You persist, as you have no choice but to do so. Your tongue passes her asshole, and the taste multiplies. She sits back, almost leaning her full weight back onto your face. Your nose is crushed against her skin, and your tongue can barely move for how tight it is now.

“I have a busy day, slave. I do not have time to wait for pathetic little perverts like you to tongue my asshole clean. Speed it up. Now!” Her voice thunders like a goddess from the heavens, and to you, she might as well be.

You struggle to comply, but comply you do. You dutifully lap up the musky taste of her asshole, and swallow not only it, but the rising feeling that you should feel lucky to worship such a glorious ass. It’s an unwanted thought; after all, you are not here by choice.

She leans forward, and turns the shower on. Warm, this time. She begins to bathe and was herself, perched upon your head as though you were little more than a stool. Every movement she makes is reflected by a change of weight distribution on your face. She runs soap down her body, and as you lick her ass, shower water dribbles between her cheeks and fills your mouth. You swallow it, but it just keeps coming.

She reaches for something hanging from the shower caddy. Something long and black — you can’t quite tell what. A hairbrush, a dildo, a wand, a whip. Whatever it is, she pushes it into her cunt as she rests on your face. You keep licking, as it’s your duty, no matter how sore your tongue is, or how strained your jaw has become.

She moans softly, pleasuring herself on top of you. You feel like furniture. An object of her possession. A mere stool in her shower. Something to ridicule, and piss on, and fuck herself atop for fun. You feel like this because you are this.

That reality is setting in now.

She starts gently rocking on your face, her cheeks tightening so hard that they almost pinch your nose off, and clamp your tongue still. One dainty hand clasps the iron bar you are handcuffed to, the other grips her pleasure-thing tightly. A gentle whimper sneaks past her lips; the softest noise you’ve ever heard her make. Her movements grow as quickly and as passionately as her breathing does.

The shower water continues to cascade down her divine figure, and rain down onto your pathetic one. You splutter as your mouth fills with soapy, ass water. She ignores you. She doesn’t care if you drown down there. Her moans grow more and more steady, and the time between them shrinks with each successive gasp until her cries have merged into one, long, sultry vocalization. Her thighs quiver, you can feel them. She arches back, and orgasms wildly on your face. Your chin becomes slick with her arousal.

She sighs, and lifts herself from her stool. She turns off the shower, and claps her hands twice. A manacled slave shuffles in, his face hidden entirely by a black hood. His hands are tied behind his back, his sides are raw with fresh whip marks. Her towel is suspended on a hook affixed to his face. She takes it, and he leaves without a word. That’s his whole purpose.

She turns out the light and closes the door behind her.

I hope you delicious deviants enjoyed this piece. I can see myself writing a few more stories of Mistress Arabella’s erotic endeavors. We shall see… In the meantime, here’s a few of my other stories you may enjoy.

Mel

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