Lady Sonia

Lady Sonia Strap on Femdom

It was Lady Sonia’s voice but as I had never heard it before. It was not a shout. It was a firm assured command issued in a calm firm voice, a voice that said that she was going to enjoy watching what she had ordered her two pretty girl companions to do to me. “Stilt the bitch.” Lady Sonia’s repeat command brought me back from my dazed reverie. Lady Sonia and I went back a long way, right back to childhood schooldays. We had remained close friends even in the final years when it was clear that I was the clever one and she seemingly destined for no great achievement.

We split for a time when I had gone up to where I got my first in modern languages. We had kept in touch but were a little estranged. Envy played some part. Lady Sonia was jealous of my education. Yet Lady Sonia had no cause. It was she who was the 27-year-old millionaire and I, twenty-six now, the unemployed graduate who had never found her place in the world of work till the wonderful job I had just been dismissed from after only three months.

There were three pretty young girls videoing what was happening to me on that warm June Saturday afternoon in the lounge of my ground floor London apartment. Two operating individual cameras, and one on sound. This was Lady Sonia’s business. This was how she had made her millions. “Specialist erotica” she called it. “The customer wants to be sure it’s the real thing happening on their screen,” she’d say, “And when they buy my stuff they know they get nothing that isn’t 100% kosher.”

I’d known for a long time that she made films of girls being tortured sexually. Lady Sonia never put it as basically. But that is what she did. I never really listened when she was in boasting mode, as often she was when she was tipsy. But I took in that there were also invited audiences who paid $2,000 a head to witness live, and participate in the fantasies that she made real, with absolutely no make believe for the poor girl victims. And the girls she had were always so incredibly beautiful. “They want triple-A meat, and I don’t accept less”. She’d say. “I never did, not even in the beginning.”

And that was what was hurting momentarily as I heard that command. Was that how Lady Sonia had always regarded me. Was I just “triple-A meat” to her?

I knew that at school she had had the “hots” for me. She had always been a girl for girls. Me, I wanted none of that and had gently but firmly declined her when, in our later teens, she’d grabbed me at the end of one of our drunken nights out. “I only want a kiss you goodnight,” she’d say, but I knew full well it was not a sisterly kiss she was after.

For me it had been a succession of boyfriends each worse than the one who went before. “Was Always Not Quite Entirely Right” Lady Sonia would giggle about the latest John or Joe that had left me crying on her shoulder. “It spells ‘wanker’ you know”. She’d then snort with laughter, and we’d both be cheered up. She could be so loving a friend.

We’d both been the belles of the school. Nobody was in our league for looks and figure. And we knew it. At eighteen I was (and still am) five feet seven, 115 pounds, with a 36D; 24, 37 figure, light brown hair, and very dark brown eyes. I can still turn any man’s head at mile distance and more with my lovely face and my long strong and superbly shapely legs.

And we were bitches to the boys and girls who lusted after us. I worked hard on my body (and still do). Swimming, belly-dancing, sword fencing, skating, running, cycling, aerobics, step-dancing, horse riding, and sex, lots and lots of sex, when I can get it. I loved sex. If only I could have found a man who could even half deliver on his boastful promises. I never did. I did a better job for myself than any stupid selfish man ever did for me.

There was never a time when I was not on the move. I loved the open air and freedom. I could never, but never, sit still when I had the chance to avoid it.

That is how I lost the job and was about to lose my apartment. I’d opted for a weekend hiking in Scotland when I was supposed to be preparing for a meeting. We lost the contract and my employers soon found that they: “were going to have to let me go”.

Ordinarily I had never asked and never would ask Lady Sonia for money. She’d let it be known I only had to mention it and she would willingly provide.

Before I started buying it, she’d offered to loan me the money for my apartment, interest free. She’d then said that if I was that proud about borrowing from her, I could pay her interest on the loan if it made me feel better. But I had insisted on a mortgage from a bank.

Job gone now and the housing market dead that was where my problems lay. I had a massive loan on a very expensive fashionable-London property worth less than the money outstanding. I had no job and a gigantic loan to repay.

I’d swallowed pride. I’d phoned Lady Sonia and asked her point blank if she could loan me $250,000. Of course I reminded her of how she had always offered money and apologised that I had been so proud and independent before, adding that I was desperate, as she well knew, else I would never have swallowed pride to phone her

I left all this in a voicemail message. Lady Sonia was not in her office.

An hour later, I’d had a phone call from Lady Sonia’s secretary. “Lady Sonia says to see your email”, said the girl’s voice.

And that was where it all began. Pleased that Lady Sonia had seen fit not to discuss my predicament with her secretary, I turned on my computer and opened my mail, getting rid of the usual uninvited credit card offers and other junk to open Lady Sonia’s message to me in answer to my prayer to her. As I read her message, my mouth fell open, and I felt a weird sensation in the pit of my stomach.

My first subsequent reaction was anger. And yet I read and re-read the message. And, as time drifted past and I calmed down, there was another strange feeling it was giving me between my legs. The more I had read it the more strangely exciting I had found it. Exciting in a nerve tingling way. It turned my tummy over. It excited me in spite of myself. It simply read:

“The Longing Alms 8.00 tonight. Miniskirt and t-shirt. No bra. No panties. Bare legs. Minimum three-inch heels. No money unless you submit to being tamed in public and on film. You have no choice. Jax ”

I was never one to exhibit myself in the manner of dress prescribed, and it took all my courage to wear what Lady Sonia had directed. Why did I do it? I do not know even now. That message and my subconscious knowledge of my dependence on Lady Sonia had suddenly touched off something new in me.

I dressed like a whore on a warm summer’s night and found every man’s head turning as I glided into the Longing Alms public house, a place where Lady Sonia and I had often driven. Lady Sonia and two young female companions were already there. Lady Sonia knew she had won as soon as she saw how I was, or perhaps one should say was not, dressed.

We sat at a table next a wall in an alcove. Lady Sonia motioned for me to sit between the two girls (they were no more than eighteen I’d swear). The girls and I sat with our backs to the wall. Lady Sonia sat opposite us.

I tried to smile at Lady Sonia. But that was not the way that things were now. There was no answering smile. The public house was busy. Many more were drinking outside. The sun was still shining. It was hot and humid.

My incredible nervousness at my vulnerable nakedness beneath my skimpy garments was causing contractions in my bowels. But I feared to move from my seat. My fear at what was going to happen only increased as my peripheral vision told me the girls either side of me were drinking in the beauty of my bare thighs.

Lady Sonia looked around to ensure she was not overheard, before quietly looking me straight in the face and saying in a low whisper: “You will not cross your legs”. I blushed and averted my gaze. Lady Sonia nodded to her companions, whom I later found were wired for video recording and sound: “Stroke her”, she whispered.

I sat bolt upright as I felt the warm pretty soft hands of the sexy pretty girls on my knees. I put my arms by my side to stop them touching me. They lifted my arms back by the elbows and insisted firmly by their actions that I keep them on the table.

I blushed crimson as they worked, hidden by the table, to pull the hem of my skirt even further up than it had naturally ridden when I sat. I would never before have let girls touch me as these girls were now. But what choice did I have?

Again I tried to put my arms by my side and thereby stop them from touching me, but they each pushed my arms back onto the table even more insistently. The girl on my right leaned over to whisper in my ear. “Our orders are to stroke you, you bitch, and you are going to be stroked. So put your hands on the table and part your lovely legs”.

I moved my thighs nervously a little wider. “Wider bitch”, the same girl hissed. I obeyed. The two girls set up an insistent rhythm and pattern running their eager hands up and down one each of my thighs. Up and down the inside of each of my thighs in coordinated unison they stroked me back and forth and back and forth and back and forth, from my knees to my groin.

On and on and on and on they went their gentle but firm slow rhythmic stroking, every stoke reminding me how naked and publicly exposed I was.

Lady Sonia went to buy all of us a drink and left me being ravished, hidden by the table and the alcove location.

On and on and on and on and on and on and on it went stroke after gentle insistent stroke up and down my soft girl’s thigh flesh. I was becoming mesmerised losing my mind to all sensations other than that of my gorgeous bare thighs being stoked over and over and over and over again.

Lady Sonia had long since returned with drinks. Mine was only bottled water. Obviously I must experience my ravishing in full with all my senses alert. And they were alert: my nerve ends were zinging.

After twenty whole minutes of this continuous rhythmic slow firm gentle stroking of my nude thighs, my legs were like jelly, and my eyes closing with sensational rapture. My cunt juices began to seep from my girl-lips. I let out a stifled sexual cry.

It was now the girl on my left who leant over and hissed in my ear: “You dirty bitch”. The stroking went on and on and on and on, ten, twenty, thirty minutes more: seemingly endlessly. And again I cried out, this time a little louder. Lady Sonia covered for it with a laugh and made out it was the punch line to a joke.

Then she nodded. “How wet is she?” she asked.

The stroking stopped and I braced myself as the girl on my right eased me forward and ran an enquiring finger along my oozing girl-lips. She held the finger up. Lady Sonia nodded in acknowledgement.

I wanted so much more from that finger. I wanted the thigh stroking to continue. I found myself now squeezing by thighs together, though not daring to cross my legs. I was on the verge of an orgasm and must obediently suffer my terrible frustration. I lightly bit my lower lip and my eyes darted from side to side. I was begging the girls with my eyes. I was begging them to finish me.

“What score?” said Lady Sonia to the first of the two girls.

“100 out of 100” for me”, came the answer. “Me too, and some!” said her companion.

I hung my head in deep blushing shame. Then I noticed that a pen and paper were in front of me. I struggled to hold the pen so adrift from the world was my mind, but somehow I signed. I had signed Lady Sonia’s contract. I was to star in one of her infamous films. A film through the sales of which the money Lady Sonia would loan me would be recovered many times over.

Lady Sonia ordered me home and said to be ready at 2.00 the next afternoon: a Saturday. I was to be delivered up that evening, she said. “We’ve promised the best entertainment yet. And I just know you’re going to be just that!”

How I managed to stand and walk alone out of the Longing Alms that night I will never know. My legs felt as if I had even yet, at twenty-six, not learned to walk for the first time. Lady Sonia purposely caught my arm and pulled me to her to hear her final order. “Don’t you dare play with yourself”.

I would not. I somehow knew that my frustration was part of my taming. I steadied myself by holding chair backs as I staggered toward the entrance door.

“Why do lovely young girls like you need to get so stupidly drunk? We don’t want drunks in here!” said an old lady near the door, as I walked rubber-legged flush-faced stunned-eyed out to my car.

KATRINA’S TAMING (by Eve Adorer)

Chapter 2 – Katrina is Made Ready

Arriving back at my apartment from the Longing Alms, I threw off my soiled clothes and took the longest shower of my life to wash the sweet girl-sweat from my body. I must cool down! What had they done to me? Why had I let them do it? A mature twenty-six year old woman used as a sex toy by girls barely out of sixth form.

Above all, why and why did I feel as I did? Sexual; sexy; humiliated; elated; angry; pleased; hateful; ecstatic; unhappy; giggly, frustrated and excited, each and every one of these by turn and turn again.

I knew that I had almost begged those pretty young girls to take me to climax. I felt deep shame at this latter thought, and yet that shame started the girl-juice in my cunt again. I clutched my belly with both hands and let out a gasp as I bent double with shock at the lightening speed return of extremely heavy and intoxicatingly heady sexual arousal.

In bed I fought and fought not to finger my girl-slit and clit. Tossing and turning, my mind going over and over and relentlessly over the humiliating sexual stroking I had been given. I was sure I would never sleep but eventually did and woke at 10.00 the next morning feeling totally wretched.

I drank coffee and wandered around my apartment like a zombie, all the time asking myself how on earth I could ever pass the time till 2.00 that afternoon and whether anyway I shouldn’t run away. I had fuel in the car. I could be halfway to Scotland or flown from any airport by the time Lady Sonia came for me. I showered again and went back to bed. It was gone noon when I awoke once more, fresh as the earliest spring daisy.

Another shower and then my hair and some light make-up. No damaged fingernails. Thank goodness for that. I was always catching them. No nail varnish. Somehow I thought they wouldn’t allow nail varnish. What to wear!? For goodness sake, I had no idea what to wear! It would be hot again. June had scorched for days. There might be some travel. Lady Sonia’s place was out of London: middle of nowhere.

I settled for a white vest, blue denim skirt and almost heel-less open toe summer sandals. No underwear. It was obvious that there must be no underwear. The excitement of dressing like a slut made my tummy tingle once more. I checked myself in a full-length mirror. My lovely firm pert breasts were swelling the vest to bursting. My nipples were eye-catchingly obvious where they pushed out the thin fabric. Was this a bit too much: a bit too sexy?

For heaven’s sake, why was I only thinking of sex all the time?

The girl in the mirror was astonishingly beautiful and stunningly attractive. But there was more to me than an angel’s face and deep dark brown eyes. I was and am an intelligent, no, a very intelligent woman. And yet I was standing there and turning and admiring the effect of my pert full round and heavy breasts on the skimpy vest, the way my extremely smackable bum filled out my skirt, the trim slimness of my waist and, above all, the shapeliness of my legs, with their firm calves and curvaceous, perfectly proportioned, thighs. I went back to my dressing table and checked my lipstick. Despite my brain, or even because of it, I was all giddy girl once more.

It was 1.00 pm, an hour early, when my doorbell rang. I looked through the safety spy hole. It was Lady Sonia already. With her was a bevy of pretty girls carrying equipment including lights and cameras. My “taming” as Lady Sonia had termed it, was to be professionally filmed.

My stomach churned as I opened the door. Unsure what to say I said nothing. The two girls that had stroked me made straight for me, held one hand each and told me I looked absolutely delicious. And I blushed. I blushed like a girl winning her first ever compliment.

Attempting to be the perfect hostess, I asked if everyone wanted coffee, but was totally ignored.

Lights were being set up, cameras and a sound boom readied. One of the two young girls asked me if I wanted to use the bathroom before filming started. This in my own apartment! My bathroom, not hers!! And yet I meekly and politely answered: “No thank you”.

Lady Sonia was directing preparations. One of my straight-backed dining chairs was placed in the middle of a pool of light. “Don’t let her sit,” ordered Lady Sonia referring to me, “We don’t want to have to wait for any pressure marks to go”.

Lady Sonia, my oldest friend, had not looked at me once. That hurt me. One glance from her would have been the smallest and biggest comfort to me right then.

I was becoming frightened. Terrified would be more the word. My mind was racing. What were they going to do to me? What must I suffer for the $250,000 I so desperately needed? Could I call this whole thing off even right now?

It was as if Lady Sonia could read my thoughts: “Oh for goodness sake, someone get her stripped!” she ordered.

The two girls came to me and without a word, let alone the seeking of my consent, they unzipped my skirt and dropped it to my ankles, before pulling my vest over my head, and unbuckling my shoes. My clothes and sandals were thrown well out of sight of the cameras. They then further brushed my rather wild brown locks till they shone and crackled with static, and gathered them into a ponytail.

The filming began with Lady Sonia directing the camera to take in the whole of my naked body, head to foot, front and back. More shots concentrated on my breasts and close up on my pretty rosebud-pink nipples with their one-inch diameter areole. And yet more were taken of my bum, finishing with a particularly lengthy look ground-upwards at my tightly closed in-curling girl-lips. I was ordered to keep my head up, though I wanted to die from the blushing shame of being ravished this way by the cameras.

Then came Lady Sonia’s order, “Stilt her!”

My mind raced as I was led to the dining chair in the spotlights. I was letting all this happen freely; yet I was a prisoner. I could hardly run away, stark naked as I was. I followed obediently as the girls took my hands with their own warm soft pretty hands and led me to the chair. As I heard one of them whisper: “Be brave”, I went into a reverie about Lady Sonia and me and our past together.

“Stilt the bitch” Lady Sonia barked, as much for the film’s theme as to snap me, her victim, alert once more.

I had no idea what the order meant.

Then I was shown them: my stilt-booties. They should have been a fantasy; but they were absolutely here and now and very very real. They were incredible. Made of black soft leather reinforced by shiny stainless steel, they were the sexiest booties you could imagine and beyond, way beyond, even that.

But there was something very strange about them. Their heels were, though it sounds unbelievable, nothing less than twelve bright shiny stiletto stainless steel inches, tapering down to contact of less than a one-eighth-inch square on the ground. Twelve inch heels if I had it right! The heels were far far longer than my foot. Yet were they heels?

If the definition of a bootie’s sole, as it surely must, necessarily dictates some contact with the ground, the sole of these booties was a sole in name only. The sole had no contact with the ground whatsoever. Also made of shiny stainless steel, it flowed in a rigid curve from the heel to the toe-end of the booties, where it bent slightly back again. But nobody’s foot could bend that way. What was going on?

The soles of the booties curved back in the same way as a ballet shoe curves back when the ballerina pirouettes. But these soles were rigid, not flexible like a ballet shoe, so the wearer’s foot would be constantly forced back to make her toes point to ground when she stood. But they curved the wrong way! What WAS going on?

Their intention was pretty certain; it was to hold the wearer in constant pirouetted tiptoe. To ensure this, the toe–end of the bootie was squared off. It would be the toe-end of the bootie the wearer would primarily stand and move on. The “heels” touched the ground with minimal distance between toe-end and “heel”. But were they heels: which was the heel and which the toe-end? It was only clear where the foot must go.

As the “heels”, if they were heels, were twelve-inches, so the sole and toe combination must match that, and did. From where the tips of the big toes of the wearer would lodge within the bootie when worn, was a three-and-a-half inch toe-end to the bootie speedily tapering down, to match the length of the “heels”, till it touched the ground with miniscule contact.

Miniscule contact of the toe-end was absolutely assured, because the toe-end tapered down to finish in a one-inch broad quarter-inch wide extra-hard flat steel tip, a tip that could and would give the wearer of the bootie no stable contact with the ground. She would stand in the booties on the toe-ends, with the “heels” for occasional redress of balance and no more. But the soles curved the wrong way! What on earth was going on for goodness sake?!

Of course, that was it, of course!! These booties were a mistresspiece of design. Those were no heels; but those were the toes: that was why the soles seemed to curve the wrong way: they curved the right way!!

How could I be so stupid?

It was so clear to me now, the wearer would be put in the equivalent of ballet shoes with rigid soles to hold her foot constantly on tiptoe. And the heels? They were not heels: they were a means for the wearer to stand. They were not at the rear of the bootie; they were at the front!!!

The wearer would walk, or whatever, on her toe-tips stilted nearly four-inches high at that, and totally pirouetted, and rest the front “heels” on the ground only when stationary. As I imagined this, I gave a little girly fart of fear and excitement: sexual excitement. This was indeed to be cruel. These weird reverse booties were incredibly cruel and incredibly sexy.

Only the one-inch wide contact with the ground from the flat-tipped toe-ends would give the bootie any stability at all, and that would be only on the split hairs breadth side of totally non-existent. Standing in these booties, the wearer would be teetering murderously tiptoed with the weight of her whole body on the very tips of her big toes within them and only the very barest minimum of contact with the ground. And the stability of that contact would be so far absent as to be almost more theoretical than real.

She would be a complete prisoner who must beware every step and even her standing in fear of a fall. Constantly self-conscious of her legs formed in permanent incredibly sexy and deeply sexual en-pointe pirouette, she would at all times have to balance herself against the slightest stagger.

The cameras zoomed close-up to examine my face and eyes as I was made to study the booties held before me by one of my young girl tormentors.

I slowly shook my head in amazement that any girl could be expected to wear these. But a girl was going to wear them. That girl was me. How could I possible stand let alone walk in such monstrously weird and deeply sexy foot-ware?

The cameras took in the puzzlement on my gorgeous face and my look of astonishment at what came next.

My torture was begun. It was a two-girl operation to fit the booties on me. One held my right leg up and the other eased my toes into the first bootie. This gave me a chance to study one of the booties more closely, as I must to understand them and how I was to stand and move in them, as I would inevitably be forced.

My foot was being easily slid into the rigidly formed pirouetted-ballerina-shaped foot housing of the bootie. It opened like a bellow, and was lined with velvet-like white material, with support for the arch of my foot within it. My foot went in easily enough, though I found it decidedly uncomfortable as the rigid sole of the bootie bent my foot backwards to ensure my big toe would point straight down when I stood.

To make sure my pretty foot was right home, the bootie was placed, with my foot deep into it, on the floor, and my heel grasped and pushed a little. I winced as my foot went finally down to the end of the compartment made for it, and my big toe was pushing on the velvet that would be my only cushion when I was standing in the bootie. The bootie had clearly been precisely tailored to the size and shape of my foot.

Now I fully realised, that what I had at first thought must be the heel, was indeed at the front of the bootie. This “front-heel” pointed straight to ground when my bootie was on the ground. I was therefore reversed. My big toe was behind the “heel”. The “heel” could only be used to balance when stationary.

Once my foot was fully in, the bellows-like compartment of the bootie that held my foot was made tight around the foot by an outside strap that was buckled around the bootie at the point where the middle of the sole of my foot was inside.

At the top end of the bootie, the “front-heel” turned into a broad strap that would go around my ankle to hold the bootie immovably in place. This strap was also now taken round my ankle and buckled and padlocked in place at the back of my ankle.

The cameras lingered for the foot fetishists who were a big market for Lady Sonia’s videos, on the operation being repeated with my poor left foot. Fixing the booties had finished with both of them having their top straps buckled and padlocked tightly around my strong but dainty ankles.

I now sat with both stilt-booties tight strapped buckled and padlocked firmly in place on my cruelly bent-back feet. With the stilt-booties on the ground, my feet were held in a permanent en pointe stance. My big toes were pointing rigidly straight to ground. I sat with my already naturally beautiful calves given a new and compellingly sexual sexy curvature. My girlness was deliciously delightfully enhanced.

These booties, these incredible booties: rigid ballet shoes with stainless-steel soles bending my pretty feet back so that I had my big toes pointing straight down, with their “front heel” like stilts as the only saviour of my falling over forwards in them when I stood still, and minimal saviours at that, were now tight strapped, ankle strapped and ankle-strap padlocked on my feet.

I had not practiced ballet since I was a child, and my feet were no longer used to being bent back this way: tears were in the corner of my eyes; it was so painful. There was only one order that could now be given. The one I dreaded at that moment the most.

“Make her stand”, Lady Sonia barked.

The girls took my hands. I had no choice. The cameras whirred drinking this moment in. I sat back on the chair once, then twice, then a third time in my failure to lock my knees to hold myself erect. And then I did it. I was standing, my hands were let go and my chair taken away. I was standing, very uncertainly my sexy legs shaking like a newborn lambs in my stilt-booties. It felt absolutely incredible I just knew that I was being displayed so very fantastically sexily.

I was standing permanently pirouetted in my ballet-booties, on the very tips of my big toes like a prima ballerina. It was dreadfully painful too but oh so very sexy. I rested the front-heels on the ground. I stood with my beautiful fantastically shapely super-strong sexy girl’s legs quivering with the strain. I stood, resting on the front-heels, with no rear heels, I stood murderously tip-toed, sensationally steeple legged, I stood the epitome of sex on legs: sex on super-girlised legs.

I was a girl standing on legs so fit and strong and so bounteously beautiful, but legs so helplessly held as to put her in the prison of fear from her precariousness. My legs were captured and held sexually imprisoned. I had no escape. I could barely stand. I could maybe walk. But I had no escape from my captors. I was helpless. My gloriously sexy legs were imprisoned, so I was imprisoned.

And yet I felt liberated. This was how my fabulously beautiful legs were meant to be displayed.

A girl’s legs have function and wonderful beauty. I was, for once, letting the full wondrous beauty of my legs be seen, function could take second place.

Function would be curbed and controlled by these booties. The curbing and controlling of the function of my legs only enhanced the wonderfulness of the way they were now displayed. And the way I would be forced to walk would add more of the sensuous sexualness already natural to my girlity. I would be super-girlised.

It was dreadfully painful because the whole weight of my body was on the very tips of my two big toes and the nails of those toes was being driven back into the flesh of my toes by the pressure upon them.

My weight was forced entirely onto my big toes because the only way I could stand in the stilt-booties was, of course, on the booties’ totally unstable tiptoe-ends with the front-heels of the booties barely contacting the ground and providing only minimal respite when I succeeded in transferring some of my body weight to them from moment to moment.

The fear the thought of falling engendered in my belly made my tummy churn. I held my stance stiff as a soldier at attention, but found I had to move minimally but constantly to hold my balance. I was a prisoner in my booties. I was a prisoner of my booties. I was a prisoner tortured by fear of falling knowing the certainty that I would break an ankle leg or thigh were I to topple over.

I was permanently pirouetted, forced onto tiptoe by the booties.

My wonderful legs had taken on a new powerful and overwhelmingly sexy shape. My calves were stretched long tightly and femininely muscularlarly. My dimpled knees were locked a little back from straight, as the whole of my legs were delightfully bowed very slightly backwards. My gorgeously rounded thighs looked monumentally strong. My back was wonderfully curved. And the perfectly pert extremely smackable hemispheres of my bum were deeply side dimpled and even more extraordinarily spankable.

Despite my superb fitness, my legs continued to shake with the strain of standing thus, and beads of girl-sweat were on my prettily furrowed brow.

The muscles in my enforced dimpled smackable bum twitched enticingly as I constantly fought merely to stand, the blue veins in my thighs and legs showed lightly through my tanned white skin.

I was all girl-flesh and girl-blood and girl-sinew and girl-muscle and girl-arteries and girl-veins and girl-curved with my powerful legs imprisoned controlled and tamed. I was a prisoner of my stilt-booties. My legs, my incredibly gorgeous legs compellingly curved, contoured, controlled, unconsentingly captured, and captivatingly caught.

“Oh god I cannot stand like this” I pleaded.

“Not only will you stand like that, but you will also walk or even run if so ordered” sneered Lady Sonia.

“At no time will you be helped: whatever happens. If you stagger or fall you will be left to stagger or fall. No mercy will be shown you by anybody at any time”, she continued in her quiet but forceful tone for me and for the film audience to be.

“If you fall, it will be taken as disobedience. Such disobedience of your order to stand and walk or run in your stilt-booties will be severely punished. If you fall, whether you are injured by your fall or not, you will be whipped without mercy to force you stand once more”, she hissed.

“You will obey all orders you are given, without hesitation. Even the slightest infraction will be severely punished.”

“Your wildness will be tamed. You will be made tame-girl by whatever extreme measures are necessary to employ. You are a wilful wild bitch. Now you are our prisoner, you will be forced to become one-hundred percent tame-girl no matter what it takes” she scowled and hissed in a harsh stage whisper.

As I listened to this tirade I blushed: I blushed because my girl-slit was beginning to moisten with my musk. I was becoming very deeply sexually aroused by this cruelty to me in both its physical-mental and aural-mental manifestations. I was beginning to be tamed by being emphatically girled. I must submit to being cruelly girl-tamed.

My body was being girled so that my mind would be girl-tamed. I would be driven by their torture to be so conscious of my girlness that I could have no other thought than my girlness.

I would become my girlbody. I would become my girlbody, mind and soul. I would crave nothing other than to be tame-girl. I would focus every last scintilla of my heart and soul on being tamed-girl. I would achieve the only manifestation of heaven on earth: absolute girlness. I would become heaven on earth: girl.

My young tormentors now brought a micro-mini-dress to where I stood in the spotlights. It was in blue rough denim of a very simple straight “tube” line, with broad straps at the shoulder.

They rolled it up around its open top and lifted it over my arms to pull it down over my otherwise naked body.

It hung on my shoulders by the two 2½-inch broad straps fastened to the dress itself front and back by three buttons front and back on each strap. The neckline, more a “chestline”, was level all round.

At front it was just low enough to show the beginning of my delightful nude-breasts’ cleavage. The hem was just six inches below my now wonderfully tight dimpled buttocks. They fitted a broad black belt loosely, to gather in the dress, and to show how slim my waist was. The fitting of the belt pulled the dress’ hem another inch up my nude thighs.

By now I was surrendered mind and body totally to sexuality. Lightening had struck three hundred and sixty degrees by one million dimensions in my girlbrain. I had surrendered girlbody and girlmind to my captors.

“We are going on a journey” announced Lady Sonia to me and the future audience of the video. “At this very moment, a cab is on its way here. You will walk unaided to the cab and from the cab into the good old London underground, dressed and shod exactly as you are right now.”

My incredulity at this seeming impossibility and my awareness of my vulnerable nudity beneath the airy now four-or-five-inch hemmed micro-mini-dress, showed on my lovely frowning brow and in the gasp of astonishment I uttered.

“You will not be alone. We will be filming you and your pretty escorts. The line if we are challenged, and believe it or not, we almost certainly won’t be, is that we are on a fashion shoot, and that you are a model demonstrating tomorrow’s clothes and footwear today.” Lady Sonia’s voice was firmly unemotional.

Lady Sonia concluded: “Your escorts carry whips and believe me they will use them if you even show the slightest sign of daring to disobey me or them. You have no entitlements whatsoever. You are ours body mind and soul. You are nothing. You are just bitch meat and you will be treated like bitch meat, until you are made tame-girl.”

The “rattle, rattle, rattle” of a diesel engine could now be heard getting ever closer outside. It drowned out the little squeak that had escaped my pouting mouth. A squeak caused by the shock as my humiliation and torture had fully sexually dampened my cunt, and my girl-lips were even now glistening with my girl-moisture beneath my micro-micro-mini-dress.

I was girl before, indisputably girl before, outstandingly girl before, but now I was more girl than that girl. I was now all girlness with girlshapeliness. I had overwhelming girlity. I was completely girl: just girl and nothing but girl. Girl: infinite and absolute girl. I defined girl. I was girl. Not just a girl, but girl.

KATRINA’S TAMING (by Eve Adorer)

Chapter 3 – Katrina’s Painful Journey

My only practice at walking in my twelve-inch stiletto-front-heeled tiptoe-ended stilt-booties would be as I stepped across my lounge and into my hallway before the outside path to the waiting cab. My first steps were tiny and extremely hesitant. Then I found I could best walk, indeed only walk, with my feet turned slightly out from straight, giving me an exaggerated dimple-bummed strut.

I must of course transfer the weight of my body to the cruel uncertainty of the tiptoe-ended tip of my advanced foot, whilst praying that the tiptoe-toe-end of my anchored bootie would hold from taking my miniscule purchase on the solid ground beneath me away.

If I were not to be ripped into a forward and backward legs splits I must have the infinitesimal contact with solidity of the advanced bootie anchored before I dare lift the rear bootie to advance it in its turn. And so I advanced extremely tentatively: exceedingly slowly, wiggle-rotating my gloriously firm side-dimpled bum hemispheres divinely.

Perspiration on my pretty knitted brow, my lovely dark-brown eyes were cast down at my pirouette-imprisoned feet. My pretty pink tongue was between my lovely mouth lips and lightly between my bright white teeth, and my concentration was fierce for fear of falling, so fierce that my whole body suddenly had every pore ooze sweet girl-sweat, such was my concentration and terror, the horror that I must fall: I must surely fall.

Only by the strength of the muscles in my calves and the sinew in my slender but strong ankles could I keep the toes of my booties pointing the way that I wished to advance and it took all my ferocious concentration to dictate just that.

As I gained confidence, I was able to step a little quicker and look where I was going. As I strut-walked I was forced to sway my bum hemispheres super-enticingly.

I had no choice. My bondage dictated this wonderful sexiness. I heard one of my girl tormentors say, “wow!” as she watched me step so divinely sexily, daintily and femalely, and the undulating wiggle it gave to my oh so smackable bum. I was sex on legs: and what incredibly beautifully shaped legs.

Then I staggered and cried out in fear. As I waved my lovely slim shapely arms aloft to keep my balance I screamed just knowing I was going to fall, terrified in anticipation of my gloriously shapely legs being broken.

Nobody in my entourage moved a muscle as my body swayed back and forth and I cried out for help, until with girl-sweat-beads pouring down my face I found equilibrium once more, and stood rigidly still petrified, begging for mercy.

“You were ordered to walk bitch”. I looked at my tormentors with pleading dark-brown eyes. “You were ordered to walk bitch”, Lady Sonia repeated. Move that pretty little bum of yours, and move it now or you will be whipped.”

One of my escorts uncurled her long black leather whip in readiness. Even more terrified I obediently recommenced my walk. Tears from my fears welled in my eyes. My cunt was wet again. Not this time with girl-juice, but with girl-piss that had almost trickled from my girl-slit in my terror of falling.

I cannot deny it hurt to walk permanently in enforced en pointe. But in my renewed mind, as I regained false confidence in my walking, I was pleased to be pleasing with my femininity and ultimate girlness. What was a little pain compared with being so devastatingly girl?

My fear at going out into the real world, in enforced permanent pirouette in my tiptoe-ended stilt-booties, and stark naked beneath my rough denim micro-mini-dress, had now to be overcome. I was at the threshold of the door of my street-level apartment after a two-minute struggle to even wiggle-walk across a room.

The cab driver, who had obviously been told the cameras were on a fashion shoot, merely asked if I was she, if I was the model. He didn’t wait for his answer as I wiggle-walked more into his view he just bellowed to nobody in particular bar the whole world had it been listening calling for all to, as he put it: “Just look at the legs on that!”

I could feel his staring eyes on my swaying, spankable, deep concave dimpled bum hemispheres, as I wiggle-walked bare legged (bare everything if he but knew) past his open mouthed astounded speechless gawp, my face almost purple with my blushes.

The poor man was totally transfixed by my girlness. He went on and on about how unfair it was to poor mankind that a girl should look like I did. And how no man could ever satisfy a creature like me. He was not averse to crudity, and perhaps chosen by Lady Sonia deliberately because she knew he had a loud dirty mouth, and the plus that would be for the theme of her film.

The poor man went on and on in my hearing as I was settling my sexy dimpled bum on the rear seat of his cab, still blushing deep scarlet.

Then he asked for my name, and I heard Lady Sonia answer that I was called Katrina. He looked my way again. I was sitting, cab door still open, showing a vast expanse of bare thigh because my denim micro-micro-mini-dress had unavoidably ridden up, and he kept using my name and telling me I was “a goddess”.

For effect, Lady Sonia half lied to the cabbie that I was a lesbian. It immediately silenced him. Then, after an age thinking, he concluded that of course I must be because only another girl could ever possibly satisfy a goddess like me.

It was not the poor man’s intention to humiliate me, but that was the effect. And the intention of Lady Sonia, as my chief torturer, was thereby achieved.

I spent the whole of the drive to the underground station trying not to attract this poor besotted man’s eye in his driving mirror. He went very quiet in fact. He was obviously wondering how he could get a closer look at me.

At the station he switched off his engine and immediately turned around. I already had one long en pointe leg out of the cab door and my micro-micro-mini-dress was unintentionally ridden right up showing everything, or rather, that there was nothing under it, right to his face.

The little flash he got given of the tight in-curled girl-lips of my girl-slit stunned him completely. As I wiggle-strut-walked away with my curled-up-whip carrying escorts, I continued to blush with him shouting after me telling the whole world my real name.

His out loud crude musings continued as I wiggled and strutted and swayed into the underground station, accompanied by cameras and crew, still filming my humiliation.

A passing American latched on to what seemed to be going on, and pronounced, since he was witnessing the very opposite of behaviour he expected in England, something akin to: “And I heard you Brits were tight assed”.

That amused Lady Sonia as I continued to wiggle my painful way before her and my other tormentors. “Tight assed, we Brits?” I heard Lady Sonia say in a very bad imitation of an American accent out of his earshot: “Well now honey pie, Katrina’s sure is!” she giggled, and all my tormentors laughed at this crude reference to the deep smooth concavity of my bum cheeks caused by my legs being constantly in painfully enforced pirouette.

I would never have dared join the laughter. Nor could I. I was in great pain. The walk to the underground station platform was a long way for me to wiggle en pointe in my stilt-booties. My constant enforced tip-top-toe was now hurting my shins, the front muscles of my thighs and my superbly arched back. I was wanting to stop walking: to rest.

Lady Sonia would have none of that: “Keep going bitch! Of course it hurts. It’s supposed to hurt. You stop when we say stop and not before or after, unless you want to be whipped!”.

My pain increased. My right leg was cramping. And the way my body was forced to sway and wiggle excitingly sexually and sexily had another consequence beneath my rough denim micro-mini-dress.

Every step caused my lovely pert firm nude free flowing breasts to sway. That was also deeply enjoyably sexual and sexy for all the onlookers. But for me it was becoming another source of pain as my pretty soft rose-pink nipples constantly rubbed against the inside of the course cloth. They were becoming very sore and were throbbing.

On this hot humid London June Saturday as I wiggle-strutted along, tiptoe-ended stilt bootie ballet-legged en pointe stepping, in public torture and humiliation, the girl-sweat glistened on my exposed body and ran in droplets in my cleavage.

“Let her rest a while, she’s in a lot of pain”, said the kind girl among my tormentors.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Lady Sonia’s voice behind me snapped: “No!”.

At last we were at the train platform.

Passing male commuters stared at me, bumping into each other in their eagerness not to take their eyes off my legs and my bum.

Then two older women, well past their full flower days, talked about me close-by as if I were stone deaf. They referred to the way I was dressed and asked how anyone could be expected to wear booties such as I had on: “No real person could wear them” they opined, despite the evidence before their very eyes. They concluded that I was, “a pretty little thing” and that made me blush deep scarlet once more.

I wiggle-walked another extremely painful ten yards. I was blushing bright crimson. The humiliation of my public display as a human sex toy and the cruel bondage that had made me so incredibly sexual and sexy, and my pain, had got me aroused once more.

My nipples were throbbing and peaking, and between my thighs the lips of my girl-slit were wet with my musk. Lady Sonia knew how it was, even without hearing my sexy little gasp as my girl-juices lavishly lubricated the insides of my girl-centre and my clitoris began to pulse. I was abandoned to my sexiness. I was submissive in submissive heaven and hell.

The torture of wiggle-strut-walking on super tiptoe, my big-toes crushingly loaded with all my 115 pounds, in total uncertainty of any grip on the ground of the tiptoe-ended pirouette stilt-booties, was excruciating now.

My calf muscles were locked, my slender ankle sinews agonisingly painful as they had fought now so long and continuously to stop the tiptoe toe-ends of by torture booties twisting my ankles. I was in agony.

A train pulled in and its doors slid open.

Three young men getting off the train saw me and began falling over each other in their astonishment at my wonderful girlness. Lady Sonia had a chat with them as this train pulled out. It was obvious that the talk was about me, but that I was not to hear what was said. I was ordered onto the next train to pull in.

I tried not to show in my face how much I longed to sit down. The two pretty girls escorting me manoeuvred themselves, either side of me, to one of the two side–on bench seats in the carriage facing-inwards. I sat carefully, so as to ensure my micro-micro-mini-dress’ hem did not rise too far, but I was still showing thousands of square miles of wonderful strong girl-sweat-shiny nude thigh.

I thought I could rest. But then I looked up. On the opposite bench was an old man and two of the three young men from the earlier train.

The third young man wanted the old man’s seat but the old man wasn’t going anywhere whilst he could feast his eyes on my delectably ballet dancered shapely legs. “I’ll give you five-hundred cash”, said the boy not on the bench to one of his mates with the seat he sought. “No way, no way, I wanna see this”.

“See what?” I thought.

The train pulled into a station. Passengers came and went.

The girl on my right then leant over and whispered in my ear, “When the train pulls out this time, you give the boys a treat. When it gets moving, you’re going to part your lovely legs.” She hissed. “you had better ease forward now, because not only do they want to see enough so they can be sure that you really are a girl, but they’ve been promised they’ll see your pink.” I turned to look at her. “Don’t you dare question my orders. You will do it,” she hissed.

The train doors were sliding closed. I eased my lovely bum to the edge of the bench and, deep-blushing-pink of face. I looked hard to my right as if I were taking an interest in where the train was going, whilst, agonisingly slowly parting my nude thighs wider and ever so slowly wider.

I turned my head back forward when I was aware than my outer girl-lips had opened and my inner pink ones were exposed to view. The two boys had their eyes out on storks, attention totally riveted. The old man gawped open-mouthed licking his lips. I hung my head, chin on chest, tears welling at my utter public shame. I was being mentally raped as they gorged their eyes on the moist pink inside my girl-centre.

Our station was next. I was bidden to rise. My legs refreshed by the chance to sit, I was in less pain as I stood en pointe in my cruel tiptoe-ended stilt-booties again, to wiggle-strut my sexy bum out onto the platform.

The cameras continued to take in everything for the public that would eventually buy the DVD and videotapes. Even my crimson-faced pink-inner-lips gynaecological humiliation had been secretly filmed.

Lady Sonia looked me in the eyes for the first time in my taming.

I was aware that we were waiting for a chauffeuse’s driven car to take us all to Lady Sonia’s mansion where I was to be the centre of attention in the rest of the weekend’s entertainment. That much I did know, but what was still to be done to tame me was not revealed.

Surely now I was girl-tamed. I had submitted totally. My tiptoe-ended en pointe pirouette punishment stilt-booties had me imprisoned. Constantly under threat of being toppled by the one-inch-wide tiptoe-ends taking my tenuous ground grip away, with the all but certain consequence that I would break an ankle leg or thigh, I could at least surely not be more controlled.

But my being controlled, indeed imprisoned by my stilt-booties, was not the same as my being girl-tame. Lady Sonia and my tormentors knew that were I released from my punishment booties right there and then, even after all the torture I had suffered in them, the wild-girl element in my still not girl-tamed nature would soon come to the fore once more.

Lady Sonia began to make an announcement to camera as the other camera drank in my wonderful girl-sweat glistening body:

“Despite the pleading in her angel’s face, indeed because the pleading in her angel’s face tells of her still innate wildness, Katrina must undergo yet more punishment, more restraint, more humiliation. She must have every last atomic sub-particle of wildness completely driven out of her. She must, for her own good, undergo more torture so as to break the last vestige of her will. She has not even begun to be girl-tamed yet. And she is still a million miles from being tame-girl.”

She continued talking, as if in a documentary. Lady Sonia was doing a wind up speech for the end of the first video of my torture:

“The last resort when we meet such wilful resistance is extreme indeed. We share your wish that we should girl-tame Katrina without harming her incredible beauty. But if she does not respond to the next phases we will have to have recourse to the last resort. And in the last resort we will, have no doubt whatsoever, we will strip her totally naked and bullwhip her naked body until her will is broken and she surrenders to become girl-tame and finally tame-girl”.

My cunt was juicing as my humiliation and the emphasis on my helplessness at the hands of my captors was reinforced in my mind by this talk. The camera was very close up on my features as the threat that I would be bullwhipped if need be, registered in my mind for the first time. And I knew that Lady Sonia would have it done to me too.

I gasped a sexy gasp as my clitoris danced pulsing and throbbing in my completely girl-juice wetted girl-centre. The more helpless I felt, the more sexual and aroused I became.

A sleek black car was approaching.

“You will travel on the nearside rear seat of the limousine,” Lady Sonia instructed me. “You will raise the rear hem of your dress as you sit and ensure, absolutely ensure, that there is no clothing between your body and the seat. And, if you leave cunt-juice on the leather, not only will you lick it clean but you’ll have your sexy bum whipped!” She continued so as to further humiliate me knowing, as Lady Sonia instinctively did, the high-pitched state of my sexual arousal.

It was now four in the afternoon and, such was the slowness of my imprisoned en pointe wiggle-strut walk, I had been tortured and shamed for a solid two hours. Was there to be no end to my suffering? I knew I would obey totally of course. I so wanted not only to be sexy, but also to be a good girl and be girl-tamed to become tame-girl.

The car pulled up and my door was opened for me.

The cameras moved in to scan the length of my girl-sweat bedewed legs as I lifted the rear hem of my skirt to clear my spankable deep concave dimpled girl-sweat sheened bum hemispheres. The cameras also took in the horrified look on my lovely face as I peered into the car through the opened door to see where and how it was intended I sit.

Lady Sonia’s face had the grin of the Cheshire cat when she saw that I had seen the equilateral triangle of cold rough-hewn iron bar that was fixed on the seat of the car, lined up front to back relative to the car seat. I obediently moved into the vehicle as I now knew how I had to sit. I manoeuvred my girl-lips astride this cold unrelenting punishment bar.

My angel-face was watched with unmercifully cruel pleasure as I slowly relaxed my legs and took my hands off the seat so that the whole weight of by body was being taken by my supremely delicate little girl-centre. My outer girl-lips were divided either side of the triangular cunt-lip-divider and I moaned with the pain as my inner girl-lips began taking the full weight of my lovely body.

“It hurts so!” I pleaded.

“Of course it does you stupid bitch” answered Lady Sonia. “You must learn to take your punishment like a girl”.

“You will sit upright there for the journey. If I am not satisfied that you have taken this part of your taming like a girl, I will personally whip your pretty little bum cheeks till they bleed”, she spat.

I sat all the journey through with my full weight on the cunt-lip-divider, and the microphones picked up my cries of pain as the chauffeuse seemed to purposely pick the roughest route so that she could thoroughly enjoy my suffering.

And suffer I did in extremis. I was ordered to sit bolt upright. I had to have my hands on my lap. I must keep my legs together and not take any of my weight on my legs. All of my 115 delectable pounds of weight were thus forcing my most sensitive organ wide open so that the totally unyielding cunt-lip-divider sundered my even more sensitive and girl-soft inner girl-lips.

My delicious bum was nowhere near touching the seat. It was agonising, and my eyes ran with my tears as I cried and sobbed with the unbearable pain as my cunt was bruised scraped and hideously grazed by every turn and bump and every slide of my poor girl-lips up and down the cunt-lip-divider.

My horrible torture was only relieved by the copious girl-juice that I was excreting into my open purse: lubrication that I could not control. It came so freely and in such abandoned abundance because of the pleasure to my mind of being so humiliatingly brutally tortured.

It was 5-o’ clock when the car halted at the top of the long driveway to Lady Sonia’s home.

I was so relieved when the car stopped. I had been in absolute agony throughout the journey as my cunt was bounced and bumped and slid on the cunt-lip-divider that held my soft super-sensitive pink inner girl-lips asunder.

Only a mile to Lady Sonia’s house now and surely my suffering would then be quickly over.

But no: nothing of the sort.

Lady Sonia personally got out of the car as it stood at the top end of her mile-long drive, and opened the door where I sat. “Out bitch” she ordered.

I uttered a cry of excruciating pain and grasped my belly as the circulation shot back into my bruised cunt lips when I took my weight off the cunt-lip-divider.

I cried out in utter agony at the bittersweet end to that phase of my girl-taming. So terrible was the throbbing pain in my sex that I initially did no hear my next order until my pain reluctantly eased.

“Strip”, Lady Sonia was ordering me, “Except for your pirouette punishment stilt-booties, strip naked and right now, bitch”.

I fumbled dazed fingered with the buttons holding the straps on my denim dress. My assembled torturers cheered, as it’s front fell to my waist and my wonderful firm pert breasts swung free. I undid the waist belt. Dress and belt slid slowly over my deep dimpled girl-sweat sheeny bum to the floor round my stilt-booties. With great care lest I fall, I stepped out of their encirclement.

Lady Sonia threw my clothing in the car and slammed the door I had exited. I stood before them all, naked: totally stripped nude but for my enforced en pointe pirouette stilt-booties.

Without a further word Lady Sonia and the girls got back into the car. The engine was started and it began to glide away.

“Oh don’t leave me like this, please don’t leave me like this. Please, please!” I begged all but screaming with fear they would not hear me.

My pleas were worthless. The limousine was picking up speed! I squealed with fear and begging, leaving me standing in the open air all but totally naked and still imprisoned by my punishment booties.

Then no, it stopped and came back to me: Lady Sonia and my other two tormentors got out again.

I tried to smile in apology for my dreadful fear and weakness at being left totally bare but for my stilt-booties in the middle of nowhere to fend for myself.

I also tried to please because I knew I would be punished for calling out. As they walked back to me, I heard Lady Sonia say mockingly: “She shouldn’t be stark naked out in the open like this, put something on her.”

I knew that Lady Sonia was already holding something behind her back that a camera was studying. But it was not that that was brought to me next.

The girl that had put my booties on, had three different lengths of white silk rope in her hands and was fashioning a loop in one of them. When it was ready, she passed that loop over my head and arms, leaving my arms free, down so that it was around my waist with its long loose end dangling on the ground at my rear.

Her gentler companion now tied my wrists together in front of me. And then the bondage expert girl put rope around my upper arms just above my bent elbows at the back of me, to pull my upper arms as hard together behind me as they would go given that my wrists were tied at my front.

When she had finished, my bound hands were at my belly I could only just move my arms. At that point she turned to Lady Sonia.

“You finish it” said Lady Sonia, having been offered the chance to do so.

The expert girl finished my binding.

She pulled the white silk rope loop already around my slim waist, tight, and then passed the loose end between the cheeks of my bum hemispheres over my rear girl-hole, and then parted my girl-lips with it. I gasped and moaned as she pulled it as hard as she could up into my front girl-hole before tying it off at my already bound wrists.

Lady Sonia inspected my cruel bondage. “Now our frightened little girl has something to wear” she sneered.

She tugged on the rope dividing my already extremely sore outer and inner girl-lips. I gasped at the pain. Lady Sonia then produced what she had been hiding.

“Not those as well”, begged the gentler girl. “Oh yes” said Lady Sonia, “those as well: definitely those as well”

Hidden from my eyes, she handed to the girl binding me, a pair of nipple clamps. The girl who had bound me so expertly smiled at my fear. The girl who sought some mercy for me, again entered a plea on my behalf.

“I am prepared to show mercy”, said Lady Sonia. “Let Katrina make her choice. Either she wears the nipple clamps for calling out without permission to speak, or she takes ten lashes for it. Which is it to be?”

Without a moments hesitation I chose the clamps, even though I had not yet seen them, deliberately hidden as they had been from my view.

My torturer took great delight now in showing both the camera and me the vicious clamp she was about to fix to my nude left nipple.

She opened it out to show the six razor sharp needle-pointed “teeth”, two within its bottom jaw, and four within its top jaw, and how they protruded through answering holes in the opposite jaw when the clamp’s “mouth” was closed. I noticed with fascinated horror that its “mouth” was big enough to be able to bite the whole of my nipple including its areola.

But my terror of what was about to come was completed by my being eyes transfixed by the terrible six-inch needle that formed a central “tongue” protruding five-and-a-half inches beyond the needle-toothed jaws of the clamp itself.

“They call these Piranha clamps,” Lady Sonia announced to the cameras and me with glee hardly hidden beneath her matter-of-fact tone. “Their tongues go into your milk ducts. The teeth in the jaws will then hold the tongues in your teats. I am told it is unbearably painful. But you called out as we drove away. You had no permission to speak”, she concluded icily.

“Arouse her” Lady Sonia ordered.

I could not run away imprisoned as I was by my tiptoe-ended stilt-booties and with my arms tied hard behind my back, my hands tied at my belly.

The kind girl took gentle hold of my left breast and squeezed it while the other girl rubbed my nipple with the flat palm of her hand. I was, perversely, already so sexually aroused from my torture that my nipple was rock hard immediately.

The nasty girl took over entirely now. She teased my nipple with her first and second fingers and thumb, gently tugging it, “milking” me, and getting my nipple to erect itself to full rock hard stiffness, which it readily did.

Then she held the end of my lovely left breast just behind the nipple with her fingers and thumb pressing so that the milk-hole in my pretty pink nipple was opened.

I gritted my teeth knowing that I was about to be searingly slowly pierced. My torturer carefully located the bluntish point of the knurl-shanked six-inch long “tongue” needle into my nipple’s milk-hole and began to slowly, slowly, slowly, to push it into my milk duct hole.

I screamed and pleaded and begged for the penetration to stop.

“Oh god, oh god, oh please don’t, don’t I beg you please don’t, oh god it hurts it hurts, oh please oh please stop” I cried. And yet the needle tongue was as yet only one-inch into me. I continued to beg and scream as the needle was pushed into my milk hole until at last the Piranha-clips horrible jaws, as yet unopened, were touching my nipple.

I looked down at my nipple opening with the eyes I had shut tight at the horrible pain of having my milk duct pierced, and saw that the needle tongue was deep within my lovely titty. The camera moved in to show the trickle of bright red blood running out of my tortured tit tip.

I bore five-and-a-half-inches of needle deep inside my left titty already, as the piranha clamp’s horribly toothed jaws were opened, the needle tongue given a last violent screamingly painful push to its full six-inches through my tit’s milk hole, and the Piranha’s jaws slowly closed so that its top and bottom teeth bit right through my nipple, holding the clamp to my nipple and its horrible six-inch needle tongue six full inches deep within my lovely breast.

I squealed and squealed and squealed with the pain.

Tears coursed down my angel-face. I had never endured such pain in my life before. My nipple, indeed my whole left tit filled my mind with pain. And I screamed and begged all the more as the brutal torture was repeated on my right titty and its milk teat hole.

But my titty torture was not over yet. Lady Sonia ordered that the end of my Piranha clamps be fitted with a weight. I was shown this device as it was also being displayed for the camera, and the second camera took in my face’s stunned tear-stained expression.

The weight comprised two three-inch chains that would hold it hanging from my tit piercing piranha nipple clamps. Between the chains, there hung a sealed one-inch diameter one-and-a-half foot long plastic tube half full of white coloured water – mock milk.

Lady Sonia gleefully told the future film audience, and me that the six-inch needle “tongues” that had been pushed into the milk holes in my nipples were as hollow as hypodermic syringes used by doctors to inject drugs, and that I was about to be fitted with a milker.

However, as I was “an arid bitch”, there was no point in fitting the mini-churns and tubes to take the milk that would be urged from my nipples through the needle tongues were I lactating.

Both the cameras and I were now shown the milker.

As already described it was a one-inch diameter one-and-a-half foot long straight plastic tube, half full of white coloured water, in mockery of milk I quite rightly assumed. Two metal bands through which the tube ran, and to which the suspending chains were fixed, were adjusted to space the chains at the same gaps as my tortured nipples, and a grub screw in each band tightened to hold the tube from sliding through the bands.

And then a demonstration was given, to show how rapidly the mock milk, the white water half filling the sealed tube, would rush from one end of the tube to the other at the slightest motion, never for one millisecond being still from motion from one end of the tube to the other, given the slightest impetus from movement.

The chains would be clipped through the purpose made holes in my Piranha nipple clamps. And thereafter, as my titties swung naturally, so this weight would swing to and fro pulling my titties down in turn and turn about, and swinging them uncontrollably from side to side as the water within the tube swashed from one end of the tube to the other.

Were I lactating, this pulling and swinging of my breasts would have milked me, through the hollow needle tongues than those that were six-inches deep in my milk ducts. I would have been helplessly constantly “self-milked”.

The weight was fitted and even as I stood and breathed it began to swing from side to side and set my titties into a slow left right, left right, swing in rhythm, with downward pulling of each udder in turn, over which I could have absolutely no control. It was as if my titties had declared their independence of me.

Of course my breasts, naked as they were, would jiggle and swing divinely as I moved were I free of the clamps and the milker. But the milker swung and pulled my breasts purposefully. It enforced a full side-to-side constant uncontrollable titty swing with accompanying pulling down of alternate titties. The swinging pulled on my penetrated and bitten nipples horribly painfully.

As I winced and breathed deeply the swinging increased. I gasped and breathed harder, and my tortured titties swung side to side and were tugged down and sprung back up alternately a little faster and little harder still.

I gasped again and moaned as this torture and the knowledge in my mind that it would be never ending, wet my cunt with my girl-juice, and my titties swung side to side, side to side, up and down, and up and down faster and harder still.

Foolishly I winced with the pain at the pulling on my piranha clamped teats, and the rhythmic swinging of both my breasts side-to-side in unison, and the pulling down of each breast alternately increased yet more.

In my mind I was being milked despite being barren.

They finally drove off now and left me. I was left in the public open air, stark naked, nude, without a stitch of clothing, exposed, savagely cruelly bound, vulnerable, abductable, rapeable, helpless to run or even move at more than the snail-pace that my imprisoning tiptoe-toe-ended pirouette stilt-booties would barely allow me.

I was terrified as I began my girly wiggling sexual sexy strutting pirouetted leggy titty-self-milking shuffle to the house a mile away.

I wiggle-strutted along alone en pointe and frightened at all times that I must surely fall. My arms were tied tight above the elbow behind my back, my hands in front of my belly. If I fell! If I fell I would break my legs as assuredly as I could do absolutely nothing to break my fall.

I was terrified in my lonely exposed totally naked helplessly bound vulnerability.

I wiggle-strutted alone, nude for the whole world to see me. Naked, for them to see my superb legs: nude for anyone to see my lovely breasts, and my enforced side dimpled oh so whipable bum.

Who was behind that next tree?

Was my totally nude bound body being ogled by eighteen-year old schoolgirls enjoying my torture and wishing they could feel me and play with my adult’s tits and soft brown curly-hair adorned grownup’s girl-slit? Was there a band of drunken men who would knock me over, completely helpless as I was and have their choice of orifices in which to use me?

My poor tormented breasts were now being swung in unison violently as the motion of my walking increased the sloshing of the water in the milker and swung it and my poor titties left and right, left and right, and alternating titties up and down, up and down, “milking me”, as I wiggle-walked terrified agonisingly slowly along the path to Lady Sonia’s home.

I wiggled along almost crying tears with my fear, talking to myself to keep up my spirits, forced to, once in every while, stop and rest my pirouetted legs, by standing in my booties using the precarious “front-heels”.

The house seeming to get further away as I must wiggle-ballet-strut walk in my enforced limited step every twist in the path.

And yet one part of my torture was both a failure and a success. If the rope parting my sex was to chafe and hurt me, it was a failure. But if it was to arouse and lubricate me it was outstandingly successful. My torture had made me extremely girl-wet, and the silk rope in my girl-slit was sopping with my girl-juice.

I wiggle-ballet-strutted nude, alone, in frightened en pointe sexy steps in my stilt-booties with the mockingly cruel milker swinging my titties violently from side to side, for fully an hour in the gaze, unseen by me, of the telescopic camera lenses, and the glare of the summer sun, until at last my sweet girl-sweat lathered beautiful body reached Lady Sonia’s house, the place where I, girl, would be tortured into girl-girl: girl-tamed, broken of all wilfulness and wildness forever, to become tame-girl.

KATRINA’S TAMING (by Eve Adorer)

Chapter 4 – Katrina In The Girl-Cage

With sweet girl-sweat trickling in rivulets down my nude body, I at long, oh so long last, wiggle-strutted onto the patio in front of Lady Sonia’s superb country house. And I stood, totally exhausted, my legs shaking with the strain of my cruel mile-long hour-long stilt-bootie en pointe wiggle dimple-bummed strut-walk.

Even as the masked guests gathered round to ogle me, my milker, piranha nipple clamps, and binding ropes were being removed.

As the needle teeth of the piranha clamps were released from biting as they had right through my bare nipples, and the six-inch tongues that penetrated my milk-holes were slowly pulled out, I openly cried tears from the pain and the relief from pain that hit my poor tortured breasts at one and the same time.

I felt such love for my torturers at that moment that I would do anything they wanted from me. I was sure that I momentarily experienced girl-girl and thought I must now be girl-tamed into girl-girl and thus tame-girl

I, of course, still wore my tiptoe-ended en pointe pirouette punishment stilt-booties. And within them I still stood with all my 115 superb pounds entirely on the very top tips of my big toes. I was still a prisoner of my stilt-booties and my fear of a bone-breaking fall, as my extremely tired legs shook almost uncontrollably, despite my being able now to rest standing using the front-heels.

I was physically exhausted.

Though proud of my superb fitness I could not deny that my tormentors had ground me down entirely, physically and, indeed, mentally.

I was made sex on legs by their bondage of my body, and I was now sex on legs in my mind also. I wanted nothing other than to be girl. I wanted nothing other than to be girl-sexual. I wanted nothing other than to be girl-sexy. I wanted nothing other than to be pleasing to the eyes of my beholders male and more especially female.

My mind was filled with girl to the exclusion of every other thought.

I knew I was stunningly beautiful and sexy and desired by all the women that looked at me. I knew too that they were jealous of me. They would not want to suffer one scintilla of my torture but they were with cold green-eyed envy of my displaying my beauty and being the centre of everybody’s attention.

But even the most unalterably heterosexual woman at Lady Sonia’s home that day would not hesitate for a micro-second to have me in her bed alone with her. There was no woman there who did not long to have my body. There was no woman there who did not long to have my unwounded body to caress and the chance to kiss me to girl-oblivion and take me to girl-ecstasy.

And I, hitherto only admitting to heterosexuality, had become unalterably one-hundred-percent gay-girl. I would never again desire sex with a man. I knew, absolutely knew, that my incredible beauty should only ever have been surrendered to another girl. And I wanted to be girl-tamed and become tame-girl.

Of course, that I could think that I still wanted to be tame-girl was admission in my mind that I was still not in fact girl-tamed. I knew in my mind I must suffer more, and suffer more I undoubtedly would.

I was handed an opened bottle of water and reached out a long fingered pretty hand for it.

Before I could grasp the bottle, Lady Sonia stepped up before me and slapped my lovely angel face hard.

“Where are your manners bitch?” I gasped in my shock at the harsh blow. “Please may I have water?” I begged. Lady Sonia nodded assent. “Thank you” I responded meekly and shyly as I took the bottle for which I was absolutely desperate.

I thirstily gulped the first and then a second pint bottle and was handed a third.

The masked assembly of paying guests walked around me to take in the sexiness of my naked body.

“You’ve done superbly well getting this one Lady Sonia”, sneered one leering masked man. “She’s far and away the best girl-meat we’ve had. Prime cut girl-meat, and some!”

I was reviving but too exhausted to try and see if I could recognise anybody despite their disguises.

I did not seem to know any of them; but someone recognised me.

“That’s Katrina!” she exclaimed in half laugh at her astonishment. “Lady Sonia, you’ve excelled yourself my dear. You’ve got Katrina. You’re actually taming the delectable Katrina! Wow!!”

Initially, this silly upper-crust voice rang no register in my mind of who she was or how she could possibly know me. But that was just my tiredness.

I now blushed deep scarlet at the onrush of realisation that I was totally nude and in submissive stilt-bootie bondage in front of the most junior of junior office girls working for my mother’s company.

My beautiful body was being tortured for the pleasure of a girl whose total ineptness had filled my mother’s conversation about her, moments after this girl and I had first met and this girl had ogled me at the company’s Christmas party.

This girl had followed me all that evening clearly stunned by and overwhelmed by desire for me. And now she had all she had wished to see that night, and more. She had her revenge for my ignoring her love and lust.

“You will drink until you are ordered to stop” Lady Sonia whispered as I was trying to hand back my half consumed third pint water bottle.

I obediently retained the bottle gulped its remaining contents down at intervals, and gently reached out my pretty hand for a fourth.

“You will drink that and at least three more beyond, and you will retain it”, Lady Sonia ordered.

Lady Sonia now clapped her hands to get the attention of what must have been fifty guests. And she begged to be excused, saying that dinner would be in half an hour to forty-five minutes and meanwhile she had work to do to prepare the table decoration, as a good hostess must.

I had managed to force myself to drink a fourth pint of water. Lady Sonia ordered me to drink more quickly as she did not want to have her guests kept waiting.

I knew I must obey though I could see no reason for drinking so much.

There were expressions of disappointment now as I was led away by my tormentors into Lady Sonia’s home and a room I knew, as her long time friend and frequent past visitor, to be next to her huge dining room.

I found myself blinking to adjust my lovely dark brown eyes from the glare of the outside sun to the cool comparative darkness within.

They sat me on a chair and, at Lady Sonia’s instruction, my en pointe stilt-booties were being removed.

This might be thought blessed relief, but my newly bared pretty feet were agonisingly painful, my big toes being severely savagely bruised as they were from bearing the whole weight of my body on very top tiptoe for endless hours. My every other toe too was blue purple and black with crushing.

I had not hitherto felt the pain as opposed to the precariousness of my ballet-bootie imprisonment. My feet had eventually gone numb, even almost as if dead, within my stilt-booties. But now blood was pumping back into my toe ends and with it feeling, and that feeling was purgatory, and I winced and moaned at the extreme pain of it.

I was forcing myself to sip from my seventh pint water bottle as Lady Sonia told me, completely unemotionally that as final taming, I was to spend twenty-four hours in a girl-cage.

The relief flooded through me. I could rest. My torture was over. Anything would be bearable after the cruelty of my stilt-booties and what they had done to my breasts. Anything. What was twenty-four hours in a cell compared with the hell I had just gone through?

Lady Sonia went on to say, for my benefit and the microphones recording the soundtrack of my torture, that my grasping of the pint water bottle without asking first had clearly shown that I was still a very, very, long way from being girl-tamed.

Beyond any doubt, I needed to be forced to understand humility. I would be girl-tamed. Despite my will, I would be made girl-girl and become tame-girl.

Resistance would be broken. I had clearly not suffered enough to learn the error of my wilful ways. Accordingly, I must undergo the girl-cage for twenty-four hours in which I would suffer, as untamed-girl should.

She now ordered my two girl tormentors to fit my purse with a girl-lip-gaper.

I made no effort to resist as the girl that had wanted to show me mercy, gently placed an “X” shaped device, with “Y” shaped ends at each end of the X arms, between the outer lips of my sex. Its effect was to prop my otherwise tight outer girl-lips slightly agape for reasons that I could not even begin to guess at that stage.

I had already noticed a box, what I concluded must be a box, on a hand operated pallet truck in the middle of the floor of the outer room I was in.

I studied it now as I sipped to the end of my seventh pint of water. And a slow cold chill suddenly ran its icy fingers down my spine. It was there for a purpose. What could that purpose be?

Half dazed in my overwhelming tiredness I stared at it.

I tried to analyse it. The box was two feet by two feet square at its base standing on the pallet truck, and two-and-a-half feet tall.

Its strongly hinged lid, which had a number of small holes drilled in it, was open.

The box, lid included, was made of strong transparent rigid “plastic-glass” with all its edges reinforced by bright steel strip.

It looked, if anything, like a hinge-lidded aquarium. From all four of its top corners there hung down individual lengths of strong metal chain.

I jumped with shock as Lady Sonia’s voice behind me ordered: “Cage her.”

My arms were grasped and for the first time in my taming I fought against my captors. I had fully realised what they were going to do to me and it was horrible, absolutely horrible.

I had no chance against them. They were rested and strong; I was tortured and weakened.

They frog marched me on my poor cruelly sore and brutally bruised feet toward that dreadful tiny little box. This was the girl-cage. I just knew this was the girl-cage. Two-foot square base by two-and-a-half-feet high, a tiny near cube of transparent plastic. How could I possible fit into that?

“Please don’t do this to me”, I pleaded, “Please, I beg you, anything, anything, but please don’t, don’t do this!” As ever, Lady Sonia was completely unmerciful.

I was now in front of the cage and looking down into it. “Feet in front of the bar at the bottom, and then fold your legs as you sit. Keep your arms out. Is that clear?” she directed.

Her question did not invite an answer. It was an order. I obeyed. I lifted one lovely leg and then the other so that I stood on the floor of the box, where I saw, even in my horror, that there was a curious drain hole.

I still pleaded with my silent dark brown eyes for mercy.

As I stood in the cage, its top edges were just above the level of the bases of my bum cheeks. I looked down and found the bar referred to by Lady Sonia. It ran from side to side at the bottom of the cage an inch back from one of its four windowed sides.

They held the cage steady as I obediently stood on my toes behind the bar. Again I was lifted, sexy legs down-pointed, en pointe. It was agony for my tortured feet and I cried out in pain.

My only relief was to sit. I lowered my gorgeous oh so smackable bum into the cage hanging onto the sides with my pretty hands as I folded my body slowly in, so that my breasts were pressed into my wonderful thighs as I sat compressed in the cage.

I sat hard-folded double on tiptoe my wonderful legs tight squeezed jack-knifed pressing my enormous folded thighs up hard against my breasts. Between my thighs my gaped girl-lips smiled vertically.

As had been my order, my arms were still out of the cage. Indeed, my arms and head were all that were still free from the crushingly tight imprisonment I had been forced into to finally girl-tame me.

Each of Lady Sonia’s deputies took one of my arms, folded forearm to its upper, and tucked the folded arm in, against my side, in the cage.

The seemingly impossible was achieved; my gloriously beautiful, sexual, sexy body had been forced into the tiny girl-cage. I could hardly breath so tightly was I bent double and compressed.

Once more I looked at my tormentors in silent pleading. Lady Sonia was putting a transparent plastic tube through the cage lid and offered it to my pretty mouth. “You’d better keep that where you can get it if you don’t want to die of thirst” she sneered.

I held the tube in my teeth as my head was forced down to my knees by the ventilated lid of the cage being closed and securely padlocked.

My brain whirred. I tried to move. I could not. I could flex my fingertips and my toes but nothing else. I was held totally rigid. I could just breathe in short panting gasps that caused by breasts, and especially my nipples to rub on my thighs against which they were pressed crushingly hard. Oh god, how was I to survive twenty-four hours of this!? “Have mercy, please have mercy!” I moaned.

I was aware now that the pallet truck was taking the girl-cage, with me jack-knifed gorgeous firm folded leggy body in it, into the dining room.

In the middle of that room a chain was lowered from a beam, the four chains at the corners of my cage fixed to it, and I was hauled slowly aloft to hang at onlooker’s head height on display, for the perverted pleasure of the diners when they were brought in.

My cage swung and twisted till it settled. Tears ran down my pretty face as I sobbed in my dreadful fear that I could not possibly survive twenty-four hours like this.

Lady Sonia put the finishing touches to my cage. I had already noticed the drain hole at the bottom. Lady Sonia now screwed a bottle-shaped transparent plastic sump into this, and fitted the other end of the clear plastic tube that went into the top of the cage and to my mouth lips, to the bottom of that sump.

Then though a hatch in one side of the girl-cage, a hatch I had not noticed and that was now out of my sight in my cruel, cruel jack-knifed imprisonment, a small transparent lidded box was introduced. A box that clicked neatly into the slot made for it. A box the lid of which, now inside my cage, could be opened by pushing a wire through a tiny hole in its base to push it out. A box that I would have been as horrified as my tormentors were gleeful to know, contained what must have been in excess of two-hundred active buzzing hungry and crawling meat flies.

I was aware of this inexplicable buzzing noise as I tried to move in my girl-cage, only to set it swinging and twisting uncontrollably as I fought my savage imprisonment, crying out in my torment for mercy.

Lady Sonia ordered that her guests be allowed in.

The guests came in and shouted with joy at what they saw. “Lady Sonia, oh Lady Sonia darling, you have excelled yourself this time my dear. I knew you had imagination, but this! The poor bitch!!” shouted the girl who knew me by name. “What she must be suffering!” “Oh Lady Sonia! And she is your friend. Did you say twenty-four hours? Twenty-four hours like that! Oh my god, it’s making me wet just looking at her.”

Now a man spoke out with overwhelming enthusiasm for what he saw: “You’ve always done us proud Lady Sonia, but this, this, this is superb; first rate, capital, the most erotic sight I have ever seen in all my days! What wonderful thighs she has and how you have managed to show them at their thunderously strong best! You should have been an artist Lady Sonia. No. You ARE an artist!”

“I can’t disagree with that”, said another male voice, “How the poor little cow must be suffering. Twenty-four hours you say. My goodness what a joy. ‘A girl in hell’”, that’s what you should call the film. It’s bloody marvellous what you come up with. I just want to be jerked-off slowly taking a good close look at this gorgeous babe. I want to enjoy this as it should be enjoyed. Those thighs, those glorious thighs, they are monumental”.

The guests sat around with me in their full view to dine as I continued to suffer in hell.

Sweet musky girl-sweat trickled down my body and water vapour from my body heat and my breathing ran down the clear plastic walls, as I squatted rigidly immovably in my cage. Girl-sweat dripped from my lovely face onto my thighs and ran down to the bottom of the girl-cage into the sump.

The enforced shallowness of my breathing was making my oxygen starved mind spin. I was jack-knifed totally and utterly rigidly unable to move a millimetre and yet momentarily in my mind I was walking and then running naked through a field of tall grass fresh wetted by summer rain, free as a wild pony.

The noisy chatter of the diners stopped as my cage swung and twisted and I cried out for the first time with the extreme agony of cramp in my muscles. Both of my superb legs and my pretty right arm were seized solid by the terrible pain. And there was nothing but nothing I could do to relieve it. How could I when I could not move? I just could not move!

Cramps came over me in successive waves and in successive waves I screamed with the pain. No more brutal torture could have been devised than that I was suffering. I was held in inhuman hell for the sexual gratification of complete strangers who would jerk-off over the film of my cruel slow suffering.

I blinked the sweet girl-sweat from my eyelids and squealed with the pain again as yet another wave of cramp took my calves into spasms of agony. I begged and begged to be released from my purgatory.

Then I let go my bladder and a torrent of white-yellow girl-piss hissed from by purse so that I sat in a horrible pool of girl-piss and girl-sweat, until it had trickled into the waiting sump.

I had no time to be disgusted at the way I had had to behave like an animal, more terrible cramp took both of my stupendous thighs and I bellowed in my excruciating pain.

“We shouldn’t dine alone they say”. Lady Sonia sneered mockingly. “Shall we release our fellow guests: the flies?”

At a nod from Lady Sonia, the crueller of my two young girl torturers took hold of my swinging and twisting cage and pushed open the lid of the box within it through the hole in the box’s base.

All bar one stupid fly that could not smell the feast my lovely bare girl-sweat bathed salty body would present, buzzed eagerly up and outwards. Then even that last lazy fly caught the smell of my delicious musk and joined the fray.

I screamed with horror as the two hundred-plus hungry flies began to crawl all over me.

I must needs close my eyes as they crawled on my face and tried to enter my pretty mouth before flying off to join companions already with their tickling taunting and mocking feet crawling on my breasts and up and down my thunderously strong thighs. There, with some, the crawling stopped as they puckered their snouts to suck my lovely salty girl-flesh.

I screamed with horror at this savage inhuman debasement. I was just girl-meat. I could do nothing to fight off the attention of the hundreds of these vile filthy insects crawling on my nude body.

And already, I could feel these huge fat flies finding their zigzag way within the soft brown perspiration matted pubic hair, nearing my gaped sex.

I screamed and my girl-cage nearly spun as I fought off the horrible inevitability for which my sex had been gaped.

As ever, I was aroused by my torture and my girl-juice was abundant. Like honey to bees, my girl-juice with its musk was attracting the flies to congregate at the lips of my purse.

Yet initially it was strangely anticlimactic when they began to crawl into me.

They loved my purse. They loved my girl-juice. At least one hundred flies were in or around my girl-lips. Those inside were tasting my soft pink inner girl-lips and some were seeking to enter deeper into my super sensitive girl-organ and yet others had found my clitoris on which they were feasting.

And I suffered their crawling tickling itch-making attentions patiently. I suffered the ultimate humiliation of my torture tamely. The only evidence I showed was the perfectly acceptable one where my girl-tamers were concerned. My purse oozed a continuous steady trickle of fresh girl-juice showing my stupendous arousal, as I moaned and purred and gasped with pleasure at enduring my unfulfilable sexual need to girl-come.

After a short time went by, every fly was now either crawling inside or along or waiting to enter my gaped outer girl-lips. They loved my girl musk as it oozed copiously, encouraged by their attentions to the girl-sensitive girl-pink girl-softness within me.

My inner girl-lips were smothered with eager flies tickling me subtly unbearably with their feet and sucking snouts. Others were also fighting to taste my engorged clitoris standing proud of its hiding hood. I was being driven insane by their minute attention to my soft girl-sensitive inside girl-pink.

My musk was pouring from me as the flies were performing their unwitting foreplay. Moans and girly-innocent gasps were being uncontrollably uttered from me: not by me, but from me: I had no control now over what I was saying and the sounds I was making. I was in the highest state of sexual arousal I had ever experienced as yet in my young life, as the flies continued to tickle and tease and torment my girl-pink girl-inner girl-softness.

The flies continued to feast on my cunt-juice and some to fly out around and back into my gaped cunt for more of my girl-honey. And my girl-honey flowed and trickled never-endingly uncontrollably onto the cheeks of my bum and the bottom of the girl-cage and into the girl-cage’s sump.

I was so sexually aroused by this humiliating insect foreplay that I had become just sex. My nipples were become as hard as iron, my clitoris stiff as steel and my wholly wanton sexual moans and girly-cries, sighs, screeches, gasps, groans, and squeaks those of a wild animal rather than a human girl.

I was sex and I wanted I so wanted I so needed to girl-come. I was aroused beyond arousal. I had lost my mind to pleasure as the flies tortured me with their constant innocent attentions to my most intimate and sensitive girl-parts.

Then I became aware of a chant and a thumping on the dining table where the guests were beside themselves in their enjoyment of my torture jack-knifed in my cube prison, crawling inside my most intimate part with flies.

I had been momentarily insane with pleasure from the endless foreplay of the never-ending nerve-end tormenting flies crawling around and sucking with their snouts on the flesh inside my gaped cunt. I now came round from being wholly distracted sex to the loud bawdy shouting of my tormenters as they gawped at my perfect body being tortured in the girl-cage: being tortured by the girl-cage.

“Drink; drink; drink”, they bellowed in a slowly rising dirge. And each shout of “drink; drink; drink” was accompanied by: thump; thump; thump on the dining table. More cramp bit my thighs and I squealed and hollered my pain once more. How could I stand this for twenty-four hours? How? Just how?!

I had forgotten my other-worldly insanely high pitch of arousal of but moments ago now.

The guests had seen that the sump was filled to its two-pint brim with my girl-piss and girl-sweat, and girl-honey.

“Drink; drink; drink; drink; drink”, they chorused. Could this be my saviour? Would the agonising cramps cease if I was less dehydrated? It seemed to make sense. I felt for the drinking tube with my lovely mouth and began to draw on it. I only got air. I realised I needed to suck, then stop its end with my tongue, and then suck again, until my refreshment came through.

That I was drawing on the tube was evident to the audience, which went totally silent with its eyes fixed solely on the foul white-yellow liquid I was drawing up nine-inches and stop, nine inches then stop as I sucked with my pretty pouting innocent mouth-lips on the tube.

I was all for giving up on my sucking, when I saw between my thighs, despite the steamed up walls of my all but two-foot sided cube girl-prison, that liquid was coming. I had sucked it almost up over the top of the girl-cage, and it was about to flow into my mouth, as the thumping and the chant started up again louder still: “drink; drink; drink; drink; drink; drink”.

Then they cheered and whooped and bellowed and congratulated each other as I drank.

I sucked the foul white-yellow liquid into my mouth and swallowed it.

It was horrible. It stank. It was salty. It was acidic. It burnt my mouth. I was drinking my girl-piss. I, of course, knew I was drinking my girl-piss. I was forced to drink my girl-piss. The more I drank the thirstier it made me and the more I drank. I was desperate. I sucked and sucked on the tube till I had swallowed the whole two pints of girl-piss, girl-sweat, and cunt-juice.

This would be part of my torture. I would be continuously thirsty and would draw on my only source of liquid, liquid that could only make me thirstier. Then eventually I would girl-piss and my girl-piss would be thicker and saltier and fouler smelling and more acidic and less thirst quenching than before. But I would suck it up from the sump of the girl-cage because that was all I had to drink. Then I would girl-piss once more and my girl-piss would be still thicker and still saltier and fouler smelling and more acidic and still less thirst quenching than before. And so on cruelly round and cruelly round.

I cried. Tears welled and spilled from my gorgeous dark brown eyes. For nearly an hour now in my jack-knifed imprisoned hell I had suffered the cramps of the damned and been inhumanly humiliated mocked and abused. I felt abandoned. I had no idea how long I had suffered, I only knew that I could not bear this torture any longer. I sobbed and cried and begged and begged to be released.

Then came another shock to me. My steady shallow breathing was constantly rubbing my rose-pink nipples on my girl-sweat lubricated thighs. I had already found it sexually arousing, but had fought it off. But there was now a lull in my cruel cramps and the feeling in my nipples as they constantly rhythmically rubbed on the huge thighs of my folded legs was turning me on incredibly sexually once again.

My breathing got quicker. My nipples were rubbed more intensely. They began to peak and dance once more. The effect of the rubbing grew more intense, more stimulating. I was being helplessly masturbated by my stupendous thighs.

The fat flies continued to torture me by crawling uncontrollably in and out and around my purse. I gasped as this stimulation of my nipples and from the flies inside me had its inevitable effect in my girl-centre. My girl-juice oozed super abundantly again and trickled out of my purse onto the cheeks of my bum once more. My fly smothered clitoris began to throb and dance like never before.

I breathed more quickly still. My nipples were rubbed more rapidly on my thighs. My clitoris pulsed. I fought successfully against the inevitable as I thought. But no. My stimulation was ever present. I was jack-knifed into this tiny box so tightly that there was no escape from it or from my sexual self-stimulation. I could not move a muscle.

My breathing continued my nipple rubbing. I was abandoned to it now. My clitoris was steel hard erect and harder, and being aroused the more by what seemed a hundred eager sucking and crawling insatiable flies. My sex-honey was trickling like volcanic lava from my girl-slit onto the cheeks of my bum and the floor of the girl-cage. I breathed faster still.

The total rigidity of my imprisoned jack-knifed body in its miniscule cube cell was now arousing my sexuality once again. I was enjoying, sexually, enjoying the brutality of my tiny cell and its use to exhibit me and the humiliation of the mocking audience and the fact that I was being treated as if I were no more than girl-meat and that I was being filmed so my body and my torture could be sold to anyone who cared to buy and my total immobility and the savageness of the cramps and my total imprisoned immobility and the fact that I could not move and the fact that I was jack-knifed immovably and cruelly into that tiny cell and the fact that I could not escape this torture and the fact that I could not move a millimetre and my being forced to drink my own girl-piss and the fact that I was jack-knifed shoe-horned folded double into this tiny cell where I could not move and inside my cunt was crawling with tickling and sucking flies and the fact that though I was not in any way bound I could not move I just could not move, shoe-horned in this miniscule girl-cage and the fact they had mocked me as I drank my girl-piss and the shoe-horned jack-knifed immovability of my beautiful body my torture my horrible torture, the flies and my horrible torture, the horrible torture of my wonderfully beautiful body and the constant rubbing of my nipples on my tremendous thighs…………. and I girl-orgasmed!!!

I squealed and screamed and squeaked as I girl-orgasmed. Time over time I girl-orgasmed, each girl-orgasm more powerful than the one before. I howled and bellowed and screamed and moaned in total sexual abandon, as I girl-orgasmed from the girl-submissive girl-pleasure of my girl-torture in my wildly swinging and twisting savagely cruelly imprisoning girl-cage.

“Well, well, well, Katrina my perfect darling, I do believe you’ve come, you gorgeous bitch!” Lady Sonia mocked, sneeringly.

…………And the second hour of my twenty-four hours in the girl-cage began………..

KATRINA’S TAMING (by Eve Adorer)

I am very pleased, indeed amazed, by the praise that this fantasy, up to and including chapter 4 at least, has received. I must perhaps now hope I am not next headed for a fall! To remove that which brought abundant entirely justified criticism, the version of “Katrina’s Taming” now posted up to and including chapter 4, has already been amended to remove overabundant use of, “girl-this” and “girl-that”. It seemed a good idea at the time, but clearly wasn’t!!
Eve (Adorer)

Katrina now continues her remembrance of things past………….

Chapter 5 – Katrina’s New Career

Lady Sonia was as good as her word about the loan. You might think I had paid a heavy enough price for it. In one way you would, of course, be entirely right. I had undoubtedly undergone the cruellest of torture and humiliation from Lady Sonia and her fellow pornographers.

In another way, forgive me, but you would be wrong. The price I had paid was worth it for the new girl that dawned when the twenty-six-year-old forced foetus positioned creature that had been me in the girl-cage had been re-born into the world following her twenty-four hours in that horrendously cruel womb.

I was re-born girl-girl. Before what has been referred to as my taming, I had deluded myself for all my preceding twenty-six years that I needed a man to make my life whole and worthwhile. I now knew that love can take many forms and that the standard issue boy and girl togetherness I had longed to find before my cage experience was not the only answer to a maiden’s prayer, and absolutely not at all the answer for me.

These were, of course, not my immediate thoughts on my release from the cage. After such suffering it was some time before I was able to think clearly or at all.

I was housed in Lady Sonia’s country mansion and nursed by Lady Sonia herself for many a day after my “re-birth”. It might seem strange to relate that Lady Sonia and I were still on the friendliest of terms and continued our relationship almost as before she had organised my subjection.

In my torture, Lady Sonia had played her role, and undoubtedly enjoyed her role, and enjoyed it all the more because she had had me as her victim.

For my part too, I had “acted” a role. I am not saying by this that there was any pretence at all about what had been done to me. But my “taming” had only been a theme for Lady Sonia’s film. What had been done to me had been chosen by Lady Sonia to fit that theme. I had “acted” my part in it insofar as my whole life till then had been one long enjoyment of freedom and movement and irresponsibility and I was therefore perfect for “the part”.

As I have said, it might seem strange to relate that Lady Sonia and I were still on the friendliest of terms and continued our relationship almost as before she had organised my torture. In fact that is a slight untruth. We were, it is no lie, on the friendliest of terms still. But for me now, after the cage, “friend” was too weak a word by far for what I wanted Lady Sonia to be with me.

If there were a stronger word in the dictionary than “lover” I would use it here and repeat it endlessly. I would do anything for Lady Sonia now. I adored her. I worshipped her. I longed for her to take me to her bed and have me, just as Lady Sonia had longed to have me when, before my subjection, I had always spurned her desire for my body.

But, for my dismissal of her desire over all the years since our school days together, Lady Sonia had just had her revenge, and what my every look tried to tell her about my longing, did not seem to register with her now.

You may well ask why I did not just come out with it straight and tell Lady Sonia I loved her. You are, of course, entirely right to ask. I can only answer that I could not take the risk. I wanted a sign from Lady Sonia, just the smallest, just the least but most significant sign, before I dare speak. My heart would have been broken beyond all hope had I spoken and been spurned. All my torture would have been as nought compared with that. I could not take the risk. I would suffer for love but I could not risk the death of all my hopes.

And now you ask why my looks did not tell her what I longed for Lady Sonia to know. Please understand that I could not chance anything that would turn Lady Sonia from me. I must be subtle: my heart ached, but I must be subtle. I consoled myself that it was better heartache than heartbreak.

Was Lady Sonia aware of my feelings? I have asked that question so many times that it is no surprise that you should ask it too. I hope she was. I hope she was. I could forgive her anything. If she knew but had decided she did not care, I could forgive her even that or worse. Perhaps, truth told, looking back, I wanted her to break my heart, but it felt the opposite of that at the time: entirely the opposite.

Lady Sonia had loaned me the money as she had promised. But a loan is a loan and needs repayment. I had no job, how could I repay Lady Sonia’s loan?

There was, of course, the film of my suffering. But somewhere along the way Lady Sonia had decided to keep that.

Sale of the DVD and video would have repaid my debt and brought profit beyond. Perhaps you will say that by keeping me in monetary debt and having the video of my torture still in the can, Lady Sonia was ensuring that she still had leverage over me. It is hurtful for me to have to say so but I cannot deny that it could look that way.

Lady Sonia and I talked about my future and I was so relieved when she said that she was keeping the film that I almost leaped up and kissed her. Goodness, how I wish I had done!

Oh how I had blushed with pleasure as she had praised my facial and physical beauty and offered me a job as a model. She assured me that my money debt to her would seem “chicken feed” to what I could gain as income from modelling.

Okay, this was not to be catwalk fashion-ware I would be displaying: I would be nude or semi nude in most of the picture spreads, but Lady Sonia knew people and there was fetish gear I would look divine wearing. I could use a false name….a website on the internet would be a must…

Lady Sonia did not need to sell her idea to me; if it were to be for her, I would do it. She had gone on to say that it would mean travelling worldwide for months on end, but she did not need to tell me that either, I knew I would do it for her no matter what it involved……

…..I had then returned to my own apartment and the phone had begun to ring with offers of modelling assignments. Lady Sonia had one of her managers take me on her books and I flew hither and yon to wonderful countries villages, towns and cities where I stopped in the best hotels and ate divine food.

To be totally honest, I was no model really. At least, in the beginning I was no kind of model. I was so shy of undressing before the camera and knew nothing of posing or composing my face. But, in time and with the patience people showed me, I relaxed and really enjoyed my new career.

My first photo spread was in “Pink Girl”, one of Lady Sonia’s publications for the gay-girl market. From the outset I made it a rule, and had it accepted, that I would at least keep my panties on. Nobody minded this. My physical assets were outstandingly beautiful, and the world could see all they desired to see short of the ultimate, and seemed to be pleased to be teased that way. The number of “hits” on my website certainly told that that was the way it was.

Indeed, the “tease” of my always keeping my slit covered was a marketable commodity. Advance publicity that I would be in “Pink Girl” for December 20** without my panties quadrupled sales. There was in fact only the one picture of me totally nude: totally nude that is, except for the semi-transparent dressing gown the multiple folds of which in the vital spot strategically curtained my sex.

My career was going splendidly within the year. But my love life was non-existent. Every flight that took me out of England also took me away from Lady Sonia.

Of course I met girls who wanted me. There was a charming photographer, Mi Li, a Korean beauty, who told me she loved me and kissed me passionately. And oh how my body had responded to her lips on my mouth. My panties had filled with my nectar in an instant. I could never tell Lady Sonia how I had longed for this girl to kiss my lower lips. Nor would I ever tell Lady Sonia how I had masturbated afterwards in recollection of the kiss from this brown-eyed dark-haired golden butterfly, and had fingered my slit picturing this lovely little angel enjoying watching me suffer in the girl-cage for her ….

From Lady Sonia I heard almost nothing. At least, I heard almost nothing directly. I was always aware that she, as the overall manager of the outfit I was working for one minor wing of, kept an interest in my progress. It only occurred to me much later to wonder if she would have kept me on her books if I had not been contributing at least in a small way to her profits.

I had not lost any of my longing for Lady Sonia over the year that my modelling career apprenticeship had me almost always away from my London home. So, you can imagine how my heart fluttered when, back in London for two weeks as I was, the phone had rung and Lady Sonia had invited me to a party at her London address.

I rushed out immediately to buy a dress and shoes so that I would not disgrace the event. I had money to spare and would buy the best. Okay, Lady Sonia had said not to go to any bother, that it was just “a business affair” and that it was only for some Japanese girls who owned a company working in the same line as Lady Sonia, that wanted to talk about co-operation and the wider opening of the Japanese market for Lady Sonia’s products…

It might be as boring as that for Lady Sonia, but for me this was my chance to shine for her, to stun her, to knock her dead with my beauty, to win her love, to gain her heart…

Black was the order of the day for me. The party was to be in the early evening. I donned a black quarter-cup support brassiere that lifted my otherwise bare breasts so that they would fill superbly and excitingly enticingly beautifully the dress I had chosen. Up my superbly shapely long legs I rolled black stockings with rose flower and leaf pattern in their tops, and fixed these to my black suspenders.

I would wear no panties. I wore my hair drawn up into one very tight flat bun on top of my head.

Then I put on the dress I had chosen for Lady Sonia. It was a black velvet dress that covered to my ankles and took on the shape of my lovely body, clinging to me as closely as I longed for Lady Sonia to do. Its sleeves were to my wrists. It covered my upper body entirely, finished with a Chinese style collar at my neck, and it hugged my lovely smackable bum.

As I stood shoeless in it, to check its straightness in my full length mirror and that I had zipped it right up at the back and tucked the zip away from sight, the hem of this dress, my knockout dress for Lady Sonia, was trailing on the ground.

Had I made a disastrous mistake about the size? I quickly put on my four-inch stiletto-healed sling-backs and looked again. And as I slinked toward the mirror, the whole of my beautiful suntanned black stockinged right leg was revealed by the single vent that ran from my dress’ hem to my stocking tops, and I smiled at the stunningly lovely me that was in the mirror and giggled with the joy of my girlness, and blew my mirror me a silly girly giggling kiss. Only heaven or a girl could fill that dress as divinely as I did.

My impatient cab driver had rung the bell on the outside door of my apartment three long times by now and had just taken to knocking, when I opened the door and he immediately removed his baseball hat in open-mouthed honour of me, as I swept out, blushing with delight at my compelling beauty, before him.

KATRINA’S TAMING (by Eve Adorer)

Chapter 6 – Lady Sonia’s Little Party

My stomach did somersaults of joy and fear at the prospect of meeting Lady Sonia again. Would she see me as I longed for her to see me? Would she recognise my love for her? Would she at least be delighted at my beauty? Would I not be the most beautiful girl at her party apart, of course, from Lady Sonia herself?

At least in that Lady Sonia was the first person to see me as my cab dropped me off and she opened her door in person to let me in, I was not to be disappointed.

“What are you dressed like that for?”, she demanded.

Tears welled in my eyes at this cruel blow to my hopes.

“Go to the next-door room the girls there will dress you. You’re here to serve as a waitress not to show off!” Lady Sonia snapped.

I fought back bitter tears of total disappointment. Why had I been so stupid as not to ask whether I was there as guest or as one of Lady Sonia’s employees? But even then, why had she to be so unkind?

I could hear Lady Sonia apologising to guests that the waitress was here and if they would just be patient…. and I lost track of the rest of her announcement as I went into the room she had sent me to.

I had just entered when Lady Sonia came in behind me.

“Strip totally nude” she commanded me

“I’ve promised these girls a treat and you are not going to let me down”

I, of course, recognised the two girls in that room as being Mina and Nina, my tormentors from my hideous girl-cage torture. I also, of course recognised what they were holding in readiness for me: a new pair of stilt-booties.

I stripped nude as I had been ordered and I felt that same strange combination of fear and excitement that had hit me at the beginning of this change to my life, when Lady Sonia had emailed her peremptory demand that I submit to being tamed. I blushed because my quim was once more getting moist, excited by my fear and by my submission to the command of others: Lady Sonia’s command above all.

It had been over a year now since I had last worn stilt-booties with their miniscule grip at the toe ends for the wearer forced onto tip-of-tiptoe within them, and with only their “front heels” with the one-eighth inch square contact of those heels, to enable her to stand, and of no aid to her walking.

These new booties were being slipped onto my dainty feet by my eager tormentors, who were soon strapping tight closed the “bellows” into which my feet had been slid and fixing the straps around my pretty ankles to fit my punishment-booties irremovably to my feet.

I was once more bade to stand, and lifted myself practicedly this time, having experienced the demands of these booties on me during my taming torture. Once more I arose on supremely erotically beautiful long long ballerinered legs pirouetted and skyscapered on the very tips of the tips of my big toes within these wonderfully sexual and incredibly sexy booties.

And I stood naked but for my booties blushing deep red with the knowledge of how helpless these booties made me, and how orgasmically lovely my legs were in them and at the deep concave dimples they gave me in my beautiful bum.

I looked around now still blushing at the unwavering agog admiration of my body that I could see in my tormentors’ eyes. Indeed, I was enjoying their admiration as only a girl can, and as my quim showed by its invitingly moist lips.

The theme for this gathering was obviously going to be rubber. Such of my new stilt-booties that was not stiffening stainless steel, was in black rubber.

I was to be a waitress, and this waitress-to-be needed at least a skirt. And so I was having taken up my legs and monumentally strong thighs a rubber tube that would comprise my skirt. The dimensions of this tube had been carefully calculated to take into account my ample bottom. But, even so, it was only with the greatest difficulty and judicious application of talcum powder, that this skirt was pulled over my bum.

The result was a black rubber skirt that was a skirt only insofar as there is no other word for what I wore. It was no more than ten-inches deep this skirt and, consequently, showed bum cleavage at the top of my delightful rear, and made little pretence of fully hiding my nude sex at the front.

But it covered the concaved half-moons of my bottom super-huggingly, so as to make that which was already wonder-enticingly smackable into a vision of superlative erotic loveliness, as it matched every curve and dimple of my divine rear.

Next, a white rubber waitress’ apron was taken around my waist just below my bellybutton, and its strings tied-off at the small of my back. This apron at least did for my modesty, that at the front which my rubber skirt almost totally failed to do. Even so, the apron came only four inches below the hem of my skirt and promised the joy of a flash of my nude split at any heaven-sent time.

There was something written in red on this apron in what I knew, given the nationality of Lady Sonia’s guests, to be in Japanese and which, therefore, was completely indecipherable to me, as Japanese was not among my accomplishments.

Lady Sonia put her head around the room door at this point and urged my dressers to get a move on as her guests were being kept waiting for want of their waitress.

My captors now brought a gold coloured chain, slim and as pretty as many a necklace, though of bigger and stronger links, which they passed and padlocked tightly around my waist above my apron’s “strings”.

At the middle back of this waist chain, there was a larger link. Through this larger link ran another chain of the same description as my waist chain, save that it was not to encircle me, but had at each end of it, black rubber cuffs which were now eagerly padlocked to my slim and dainty wrists.

The carefully calculated mischief behind this was that, as was demonstrated by one of the girls taking my hand in her long lovely warm fingers, I could, at any one time, because the chain which cuffed my wrists was limiting me, only have one hand in front of me.

I could take my right hand to a very little above my waist height but, in doing so, I drew the cuff chain through my waist chain and therefore took my left hand to where it could only touch my delicious left buttock.

I could, through this imprisonment by the wrists therefore, only have both hands at the same time at front, a little below hip height and, if anything, more at my side than really in front of me. I was, enforcedly therefore, to be cruelly confined to being a one-handed maid waitress.

My torturers now brought my head gear and my nipple-torment bra.

I had never experienced being masked before, but was in no position to protest, as one of the girls fixed onto my nose a light clip, such as that worn by divers, to close my nostrils. She then put over my face, a black stretch-rubber mask that covered even my ears as it was taken over my full face and strapped at the back of my head where my hair was still drawn up and away into the tight coil bun of light brown crowning beauty that adorned my head.

This vicious mask had a small round short tube at my mouth so that I could breath and, with my nostrils clamped and my nose entirely covered by the black rubber of the mask, I could only breath through this little tube.

At eye level, the cruel mask had two individual tube-blinkers. Of only a half-inch diameter and sticking out two inches rigidly straight from my face, they protruded before my face like obscene binoculars. They had no glass in them, but absolutely ensured that my vision was severely restricted, unless I moved my head: restricted to a degree distressing and frightening for a girl steepled in pirouette-booties as precariously as I was.

It was therefore only with the greatest difficulty that I could see that my lovely 36-inch D-cup breasts were being encased in a rubber brassiere, the cups of which were stiff headless precise cones. These stiff cones shaped my wonderfully generous bosoms into obscene rigid conical volcanoes, seeming to stand straight out a mile from my chest bigger than their natural and wonderful size, with my nipples poking out like fiery-pink eruptions from their ends.

The bra was tight strapped at my back, and a curious device looking a little like a doctor’s stethoscope brought to me. I was shown the details of this by Nina, the crueller of the two girls.

Having already experienced the refinements of torture Lady Sonia was capable of devising, you can, I would think, imagine with what anxious curiosity I looked at this device for the little I could see because of my blinkers, and for the brief time I was shown it.

I could not understand what it was for but, where a stethoscope would fit in a doctor’s ears, there were, instead of ear pieces, transparent cups within which was a wheel apiece with four flaps: a sort of paddle wheel such as is seen on the sides of paddle steamers, but with the paddles not encased at their sides.

These cups were fitted over my exposed nipples, protruding as my nipples did from my volcanoised tits, and snapped into place on four plastic clips for that purpose at top bottom and sides of my vulcanised volcano brassiere.

Now the single tube that would lead to the end of a stethoscope which would be pressed to the patient’s chest, was passed up to my mouth. This single tube had a rigid plastic pipe within its end, and this was inserted into the precisely matching sized pipe in my mask in front of my mouth: the pipe which was the only means left for me to breath.

Black adhesive tape was wrapped around to hold the tube from the “stethoscope” into the tube through which I must breath. But I hardly noticed that as I became, from the moment that the tube was fitted into my mask’s mouthpiece, only too fully aware of what this device was to do to me.

Despite the pounding in my heart from the stress of the bondage I was being put into, I breathed steadily and normally. And, as I breathed I drew my breath in or blew my sweet fresh exhalations through the single tube which divided in twain and led, through the resulting twin tubes, to the transparent caps over my nipples, where the wicked little paddle-wheels were thereby driven round and round and round by my breathing working a lightly sprung lever back and forth, and were thus made to constantly paddle my exquisitely lovely nude nipples.

This carefully calculated erotic torture hit my girlmind and my nipples were already dancing and trying to peak and thereby put themselves further into delightful harms way of the constant threshing from the paddle wheels in my entirely aptly named nipple-torment bra.

Finally, one of my captors knelt to fit a golden chain between the ankle straps of my pirouette-booties. I was fitted with a hobble-chain. That hobble-chain, slim but strong, was no more than a totally unmerciful one-inch in length: I would be restricted to one-inch steps in my punishment-booties!

I was ready now. This erotic rubber maid slave waitress was ready to be commanded and used and abused at the will or whim of her captors.

KATRINA’S TAMING (by Eve Adorer)

Chapter 7 – Katrina the Leggy Waitress

You can, I am sure, imagine with what care I had to wiggle sexy tiny stepping my erotically enhanced and encumbered body across the lower-floor hallway of Lady Sonia’s London apartment into the room where I knew my presence was long overdue: though my lateness was surely no fault of my own.

I wiggled my delicious rubber wrapped dimple-contoured bum cheeks, as I took enforcedly tiny-tiny mincing steps with my tightly-tightly hobbled ankles. I wiggled super-femininely, my beauty tethered tensioned torsioned and tied for the pleasure of others.

I was tethered tensioned torsioned and tied to enhance my girlness, to show my stunning woman’s body in an extreme of stress through dress that only served to enhance and emphasise the beauty that nature had given me, this delectable girl, wiggle-mincing skyscrapered-leggy-legged top-of-tip tiptoed and balletdancered in her pirouette-booties.

I wriggle-minced tiny-stepped, a strong curved calved and monumentally strong thighed stupendously eroticised beauty, with concave hollowed buttock hemispheres, my titties sticking out like two round, too round, obscene conical mountains on my chest, my nipples being constantly chastised by my anxious breathing spinning the little paddles in my nipple-torment bra, my gorgeous squeezed purse lubriciously sweating between my gorgeous thighs under my hot rubber skirt, my face cruelly masked to hide my prettiness but show my submissive beauty, my head topped by my lovely hair coiled in a bun aloft to crown me princess imperial of all girls in any and all the universes of girls.

I was transformed into a Stepford maid. I wiggled into the room where Lady Sonia held court and a silence dropped like a net over a tigress, as all eyes turned to absorb fully the beauty that was my tethered and bound body as I tiny-stepped into the room, tiptoe topped in my punishment stilt-booties one-inch hobbled leggily before them.

“Here’s the damned maid at long last,” Lady Sonia snapped for my ears to remind me of my submissive role.

I obediently wriggle-wiggle-trotted to the tray of drinks, which was resting on Lady Sonia’s bar, readied for me to distribute. With the greatest of difficulty, because of the chain hobbling my wrists so that I could only use one hand, I picked this tray up and proceeded in my wriggle-wiggle-tiny-one-inch hobbled-tip-of-tiptoe steps toward the thirty or so Japanese businesswomen that Lady Sonia was entertaining. Once tiptoed among them I obediently proffered the tray in my right hand, whilst wiggling in tippy-toe tiny-steps with my helplessly held-back lovely left hand resting sexily on my rubber clung bum.

“Curtsy!!” Lady Sonia shouted at me with a force that made me jump in metaphor at least.

“Where are your manners you useless bitch?!”

“I will not have bad manners in my home especially before my guests, and least of all from a stupid little bitch of a serving maid!”

I lowered my head in shame. I was shamed by Lady Sonia’s insult of me, her friend, of me who loved her devotedly. I was also shamed because my bondage, and the never-ending threshing of my nipples through my breathing working the nipple-torment bra paddles, and through Lady Sonia’s aggression, and through my being publicly humiliated before thirty strangers, had wet my pretty pussy purse and that wetness was even then threatening to escape my nether lips.

How could I curtsy with my ankles hobbled only one-inch apart? Putting my tip-of-toes tiptoed feet together, I bent gently toward crouching at both knees as if in the process of sitting, and lowered my shamed head, in what little I could do in my severe bondage to satisfy my mistresses quite correct demand that I show the manners due my lowest-of-the-low station in her household, and then rose again.

I wriggle-wiggle-trotted around obediently curtsying before every guest until my tray was empty. I then stood submissively by waiting to collect empty glasses.

One pretty Japanese guest could not take her eyes off me as I stood by with my tray in my right hand, my pretty left hand resting on the rubber clung half-moon of my wonderful rear.

When I had been up close to her, she had watched with fascination the little paddle wheels constantly flicking my nipples as I breathed through the tube leading to my mouth behind my mask and leading on to the twin ends of my nipple-torment bra.

Despite the steamed-up state of the containers they were encased by, this girl could see clearly how excited my nipples were at the totally unrelenting attention of the little paddles driven by my breathing through the tubes leading to the single tube leading to my mouth.

And excited indeed my nipples were. But, though I knew that my captors would not have frowned upon such an act of public masturbation, I was not so foolish as to adjust my breathing to pleasure myself. I was pleasuring myself even by breathing normally though.

My nipples were being constantly rhythmically flicked flapped tapped and tormented by the divinely evil little paddles. And, even as I merely stood patiently waiting to be a waitress, I gave out a little girly gasp, inaudible behind my mask, as my constant titty-tip torment increased the arousal already evident in she who nestled so warmly and snugly under my close-clinging black rubber micro-micro-mini skirt between my wonderful thighs.

And on and on and on it went – the constant unrelenting flicking of my nipples went on and on and on, breath as I must and torment and arouse my own nipples as I therefore also must.

The pretty Japanese who had been unashamedly ogling me, now held out her empty glass as did another girl nearby.

I wriggle-tiny-wiggle-girly-wiggle tiptoe-tip-top ballet-legged long leggy-stepped toward the first girl, obediently curtsied, and took her glass on the tray I held out in the one hand I was able to raise a little in front of me. But, as I was girly-wriggle-wiggle-stepping toward the second girl to take her empty glass, Lady Sonia bawled out at me again:

“One empty glass back to the bar at a time you stupid bitch!!”

My eyes closed behind my tunnel-vision forcing blinkers as I registered the intentional cruelty of this. I must perform my maid’s duty to take over thirty single empty glasses on my tray back to the bar one at a time in my hobbled and tiptoe tortured state, when my tray could carry of course far more.

I did as I was ordered, and this lovely girl watched my wonderful clinging close rubber encased dimple-sided bottom as it wriggled wiggled and swung super-sexually as I mince-stepped tiny-tiny quick-kick stepping in my one-inch hobble, with her one empty glass on my tray taking it back to the bar.

I was at least allowed to return to this girl with the long drink that was, curiously, to follow the wine. As I wiggled my lovely body toward this still stunned young woman, she had the close-up of the wording on my apron that she had sought to read as I had stood with empty tray obediently at the ready.

Hitherto her poor eyesight, which she vainly avoided wearing the glasses she knew she should to correct, had prevented her satisfying her curiosity, but now she had put her glasses on.

No doubt, other girls among the guests had already read what was written in Japanese on my apron, but his girl, having taken the tall drink I offered her after my obedient leggy curtsy, now read it out loud, astounded and made giggly by alcohol and her pleasure at what the notice printed in large bold red Japanese symbols on my apron read.

To my eternal shame she shouted out in English translation to the whole room, where Lady Sonia’s mocking laughter multiplied my deep shame, the wording on my apron:

The girl calling out from reading the apron I wore laughingly called out its mocking words:

“If my services are not entirely satisfactory, you may have me punished”.

As all the assembled women laughed aloud, I continued to mince and wiggle in my tippy-tiptoed skyscrapering-booties kicky-leggy as if this were something that happened every day. For me in my bondage it might just as well have been something that happened every day, for all I could do about it.

“I not satisfied”, said the girl who had read my apron notice out loud in her broken English, to my total horror,.

“I not satisfied maid. Maid naughty girl”, she laughed.

“You are very harsh madam” Lady Sonia told her, “But you are entirely in the right, and your wish is my command”, she concluded.

“Prepare the chair”, Lady Sonia ordered my other two chief tormentors.

Then, turning to the woman who had demanded I be punished, Lady Sonia told her, conspiratorially, “Madam, the maid is admittedly a disappointing totally useless bitch, but we might as well have her serve us till we are ready to wind-up our little gathering”.

“Okay: I wait” said the girl raising an eyebrow to signal to Lady Sonia her understanding of Lady Sonia’s desire to prolong my present erotic torture.

“As you can see ladies”, Lady Sonia called out to all the women assembled in the room, “We can supply lovely models for the photo shoot you have in mind.”

What was that I had just heard? Did Lady Sonia call me “lovely”? Did the love of my life praise my beauty? I stopped in the progress of my duties to turn myself to look at the face of my beloved. I wanted: no: I needed to look for the sign I had so longed for that Lady Sonia loved me to the total distraction with which I loved her.

“Why are you not working you stupid stupid bitch?!!” Lady Sonia snapped.

I turned with tears in my eyes, to wriggle-wiggle-mince-tiptoe-top-step about my leggy-legged duties once more, deeply hurt by Lady Sonia’s rejection.

Lady Sonia continued her address to the Japanese businesswomen: “A calendar for each month of the year, with an erotic moving picture constantly repeating on a loop, is an excellent idea. And for it to be posted on the internet for people to download for a suitable fee, splendid. I can guarantee you twelve lovely models, one for each month..” she concluded.

Their business apparently settled, the guests and Lady Sonia took seats so that they could watch me suffer as I struggled to wriggle-wiggle-walk in my one-inch hobbled bondage with their individual empty glasses and return with their tall drinks, of which a number of the guests were demanding more than the one.

I cannot deny for one moment that the sexiness of my erotic bondage and the humiliation brought about by my humbling and demeaning duties had got me sexually aroused. Add to this that my nipples were throbbing divinely from the constant beat of the paddle wheels within my nipple-torment bra and you have the picture of the peak of sexiness I was at toward the end of that evening.

I hardly need add therefore, that behind my white rubber maid’s apron, with its savage, “If my services are not entirely satisfactory, you may have me punished” message emblazoned upon it, and only just under my skimpy black rubber tube skirt, my lovely pussy was oozing my nectar contentedly.

During the year since my girl-cage torture, I had not neglected to keep myself fit and trim, as a photographic model must, but two hours had now gone by with me on leggy tiptoe in my punishment-booties and I was feeling the physical and mental strain.

I stood once more obediently awaiting to serve my superiors when the Japanese who had demanded I be tortured, visibly purposely dropped her handkerchief on the floor of Lady Sonia’s sumptuous lounge.

Lady Sonia smiled as she noticed this.

“Where’s that damned maid?!” Lady Sonia snapped.

“Come on you totally stupid idle and useless little bitch, pick it up!!” she demanded of me.

“My goodness where DO they get these bone-idle useless lazy good-for-nothing brainless little tarts from?!”

“Look at you, you idle little bitch, your mistress has dropped her handkerchief, are you really so damned stupid that you have to be told your duty is to immediately pick it up and present it back to her? Have you really no understanding of your place in this world? Do you really and truly not realise that little slags like you are a thousand to the cent?” Lady Sonia ranted on and on…

“…Have you really got no gratitude to your superiors for saving you from selling yourself on the streets, because that is what you’d no doubt be having to do if we had not had the goodness to take you in, feed and shelter you, you useless little whore…”

“…For god’s sake just look at yourself: you are even wearing uniform that we have had to buy for you out of our own pockets…”

“Do you have any idea how much it costs to clothe you in rubber aprons rubber mini-skirts and steeple booties to keep you clothed? Do you?! And those chains we have to bind you with to get even the slightest useful effort out of you, do you know how much they cost?! Do you, you worthless ungrateful lazy good-for-nothing little slag?!…”

“I was wrong to ever have bothered employing you. I should take your uniform off you now and throw you naked back into the gutter from whence you came, you useless little bitch!!”

“…Get MOVING you stupid useless whore!!”

I wriggle-wiggle-kicky-leggy-stepped, shamed to my core, over to where the handkerchief lay, and lowered myself to a murderously precarious huge folded legged squat, to reach out with the one hand my bonds allowed me to use, and take up the dropped handkerchief.

As I lowered myself to the squat, all eyes were on my legs and the women nudged themselves as my white rubber maid’s apron ceased to cover what my black rubber skirt hem had never really fully covered, and my extremely wet purse was wholly clearly to be seen smiling between my wonderfully strongly-thighed folded legs.

I rose slowly, curtsied humbly, blushing deeply with shame at my sexual arousal from Lady Sonia’s tirade, as I offered this handkerchief back to its owner, who simply ignored me.

“What took you so damned long, you idle bitch?!” Lady Sonia demanded.

“You damned well need to be reminded of your station in life, you lazy slut. Take the useless idle bitch and fit her with the bowl mask, and then let’s see if an hour or two in the punishment chair will drive some lessons into her useless arse!!”

Mina and Nina, my two pretty tormentors had made ready for me in the neighbouring room in which I had been bound as a serving maid. They now took my arms and led me back there at such speed as I could manage in my one-inch hobble.

No fellow woman protested this fellow woman’s humiliation and torture. My fellow women were enjoying my suffering too much for that.

To my great relief, in the preparation room my torturers removed the rubber mask that covered my face, the nipple-torment bra, my apron and my skirt, which they had to cut off, so tightly did it hug my wonderful contours.

They smiled and nudged each other as they looked at the incredibly aroused state of my nipples from their never-ending paddling when in the nipple-torment bra.

As they wiped my face of my sweet sweat, they unclipped my nostrils and I was left standing just in my stilt-booties with one-inch ankle hobble and the chain that went around my waist and the cuffs linking my wrists.

I was naked but for these and the glorious princess imperial crown that was my hair still drawn up and coiled in a tight light-brown bun atop my head.

My relief was only momentary though. Mina and Nina, the girls attending me had malign smiles. They knew what was coming next.

It seems to be only in old cartoons on TV now, that one sees a goldfish in a round bowl. I was, or at least my head was, about to become like that goldfish.

My torturesses now placed in my sight two halves of what looked like two halves of such a goldfish bowl, or maybe an imaginary spaceman’s helmet. It combined the two. Like a goldfish bowl the two halves curved up to an open top with flared out lip and, like a space helmet, there was also an opening at the bottom where, in this case, the “bowl” or “helmet” mask turned into a short round pipe to go around the wearer’s neck.

As I studied this device lost in a dream at the relief from my stress and torture as I sat. One of the girls wound, quite tightly around my neck, some black rubber tape about four or five-inches broad and sticky on both sides. She wound this around my neck from a reel, over and over itself, so that I finally had three layers sticking to me.

Each of my tormentors then took a half of the helmet bowl and brought them to where I had been sat so that they could prepare me. The open halves of the helmet had a tongue and matching groove respectively. The groove was lined with a rubber seal.

My captors now put the two halves carefully together one over my face and the other over the back of my head. The tongue in the rear half was mated into the groove of the front half so that the seam they formed when combined ran alongside my ears, and the rubber seal in the groove made the two halves one combined unit, from the open flared “goldfish bowl” rim down to and including the two halves of pipe that now formed a whole pipe around and containing my neck.

Four clips on each side of the grooved half of the bowl also mated and clicked into matching tongues on the tongue side, so that my helmet was fixed immovably in place.

Once in place, the open flared top like that of a goldfish bowl, was some two-inches above my coiled head hair. At the bottom, the short pipe was already stuck to the sticky tape that had been wound around my lovely neck.

The girl who had wound the tape around my neck, now repeated the three winds of the double-sticky-sided tape, but this time over the pipe running out the bottom of my helmet and over the still exposed original tape winding, so that pipe going all around my neck as it did, was sealed by an outer seal to the inner seal to which it already stuck. A stretch rubber brace was then brought and taken around my neck and strapped at its back.

I now gazed out at the world like a 22 nd century space-girl. I looked out through a clear plastic-glass helmet as if I had just landed from planet girl. As I sat dreamy-eyed, the sexual arousal of my nipple threshing and serving maid bondage having receded by now, I had no idea whatsoever why I had been fitted with this strange helmet.

My short dreamy reverie was short-lived. Without a word, my tormentors took my elbows and made clear that I was to stand and walk back into the room where Lady Sonia’s party guests were still assembled.

I obeyed unquestioningly, and wriggle-wiggled-tiny-kicky-stepped once more tiny-tip-top-tiptoed super-high forced leggy-legged in my pirouette-ballet-punishment-booties savagely controlled by the cruel one-inch hobble between my dainty ankles, back in among my fellow girls.

I was back in among my fellow women, but outside their fellowship. I was a girl apart. I was a victim and they the victors over me. Theirs and theirs alone was the freedom: mine and mine alone was the imprisonment and suffering.

Any one of them could have rescued me from my plight: none of them would. I was beneath them. I was beneath their contempt. In their eyes I was just dirt. I was a stupid girl who seemed to love being abused and, for them, it was wonderful to see me abused, so why not just let me be abused for the pleasure it gave them? If I was so very stupid as to let these things happen to me, I deserved all I got didn’t I? What harm was it doing to me to be sexually tortured?

Whether any of these women ever thought of me for one moment as a fellow girl I do not know, but if they ever did, they must have excused themselves along some of the preceding lines because, as I wiggled back into the room they were in, none flicked an eyelash other than to clear her eyes to more clearly see what had been done to me and what was to follow.

Lady Sonia’s smile was distressingly evil as I wriggle-wiggled back in alone ahead of my torturesses.

The centre of the room in which I had so recently been the subservient serving maid, had been cleared and rearranged. I now saw, as I was meant to see, hence Lady Sonia’s grin, that there was a large square wooden platform in the middle of the room and, bolted to the platform, in the middle of the platform, and with its back to me, a straight backed, high backed, wooden chair.

This wooden chair was of the build and strength of a park bench, but was a seat for one only. Alongside it was what I recognised as a chamber pot. It was made of metal, and had a little spout lip like a jug has to pour from. And alongside that in turn was a curious two-step ladder like arrangement made of the same rugged wood as the chair and the base to which the chair was so soundly and immovably bolted.

I stood in my space helmet goldfish bowl open topped mask in my murderously tiptoeing booties the lovely creature from planet girl, awaiting my instructions.

The guests, my two torturesses and Lady Sonia moved to stand around the edge of the platform in front of the chair…

“Come here bitch!” Lady Sonia snapped. I saw that both she and her fellow tormentors of me, Mina and Nina, had black leather whips at the ready, “Come here bitch!” Lady Sonia repeated.

I dutifully wiggle-tiptoe tiny-trot stepped to where Lady Sonia was indicating, to where Lady Sonia had ordered I must be, to where all the women were assembled to witness what was to happen, and I turned and looked with absolute horror, total horror, complete and all encompassing horror at what was prepared for me!

“Sit down straight backed right back on the chair bolt upright thighs together” Lady Sonia ordered, but I did not hear her as I looked at the chair I was now in front of having hitherto, purposely no doubt, only been able to see its rigidly straight high back.

This chair, this horrendously horrible chair, looked to some extent like a commode. I could see that it had a depression in its near rear centre and what was obviously a drain hole. Even as I looked at the chair, the metal chamber pot with jug-like lip was being slid into grooved slots that took its flanged rim directly under where this drain hole would serve.

At the top of the back was something I could see now that I stood in front that I could not have seen from standing to the rear of the seat.

At the top of the back of the seat was a sort of stocks in the same horizontal plain as the seat of the chair. One half of the stocks was built into the top of the back of chair itself. This was the non-moving half. I could clearly see that this half of the stocks had a single semi-circle hole in its centre.

Hinged to this non-moving half of the single-hole stocks, was a hinged second half with matching semi-circle hole in its centre. This hinged half was, as I studied the chair, opened out and away to the side. The moving half of the stocks had legs dangling from it that would, clearly, support it from the arms of the chair when the stocks were swung shut. Indeed there were securing connections for these supporting legs for the front half of the stocks on the chair’s waiting arms.

When I sat in it too, there would be solid wings up to the chair’s arms either side of my thighs to keep my thighs hard together.

But, that I was looking at a commode was not what horrified me. What horrified me, what was fully intended to horrify me, what I had been summoned to witness before all my fellow women gathered to see me see it for the first time, were the dozens of strong steel spikes of the thickness of sewing needles that stuck savagely, cruelly, rigidly, unyieldingly, unmercifully, upright from the seat of that chair.

These dreadful spikes, sharp pointed in shiny steel, thrust upwards for the most part one-inch from the seat where by poor buttocks and handsome thighs would be when I sat. But, in the most strategic place, not only because they had to compensate for the hollow that led to the drain, but because of deliberate forethought and cruel invention, where my quim would nestle, the spikes were not only thicker and stronger but fully seven-inches or more in their brutal length.

“Sit bitch,” Lady Sonia ordered, “Sit straight backed right back on the chair bolt upright thighs together” Lady Sonia reminded me.

I must obey. I must do as I was ordered.

Every eye watched my every move as I wiggle-walked to the chair and turned myself to sit on it.

And I begged for mercy. I begged not to have to sit in that seat of unmerciful pain. I begged the women who were Lady Sonia’s guests seeking their sympathy as fellow women to persuade them to plead in turn for me with Lady Sonia.

My only answer was from one of my torturesses aiming her cruel whip at my belly causing me to stagger even though she did not in fact strike me.

“Do as you have been told bitch”, Lady Sonia angrily slowly forcefully shouted at the terrified girl that was her victim: poor me.

Ii was clear that resistance was totally useless.

I do not even now know how I found the courage but, as my tormentors gloated with glee and threatened with their whips, I lowered myself as slowly as I possible could given my tiptoed state. I lowered myself hands at hip height until I could feel the points of those spikes. The first to touch me were the extra-long spikes strategically positioned for where my lovely purse-lips would be when I was fully sat.

Once more I begged for mercy. Once more a whip was raised in threat.

I had, of course, thought of the Indian fakirs who lie on beds of nails. But these were no nails: these were super-sharp needle-spikes and I was crying out in absolute agony as I finally had to let my superbly delicious 115 pounds press on the seat, and I was pierced in my lovely bum and my beautiful thighs, stabbed what seemed a thousand horrible and horribly painful times as my lovely body sat obediently straight backed right back on the chair bolt upright thighs together, just as I had been ordered, and screaming with the pain.

The tears ran from my eyes not for the terrible pain of the stabbing spikes penetrating the lovely girl-soft flesh of my gorgeous bottom and thighs, but from the truly dreadful agony of the extra-long spikes that had now gone right through the lips of my soft and lovely and loving purse and, inside it, through my inner nether-lips.

I cried out with the excruciating agony and begged to be released, even as my two torturesses were putting a strap across my lap at my hip bones to pull me hard and fully down on the spikes on which I was skewered, and another around my trunk just above my breasts to hold be sitting upright on my spikes.

I continued to cry the tears of the agonised and to sob the begs of the hellishly tortured as I endured the terrible pain of the spikes through my southern lips outside and inside.

The pain was unbearable and I must needs cry out with it, helpless as I was to relieve myself from it. I sobbed and begged for Lady Sonia to let me up, even using her name and telling her that I loved her.

The horror of the pain can be of no surprise considering that, although I could not myself see them, several of the longer spikes had gone right thorough my love lips and were sticking viciously victoriously up between my thighs, with trickles of my bright red blood running down them.

I was bolt upright in the straight backed seat, the back of which rose to some two-inches above my head, just short of the same height as the lip of the transparent “space-helmet-goldfish-bowl” mask in which my head was contained.

My two girl tormentors now ensured the narrow top neck of my mask just below the lip around its top, was slotted within the half-hole in the half-stocks integral with the top of the chair back. They then swung shut the other half of the stocks so that they entirely gripped the top of my goldfish bowl mask, locked the stocks shut, and secured the legs that supported the front half of the stocks to the arms of the torture chair.

I now therefore sat, in my agony, bolt upright with the transparent bowl mask that contained my head below the stocks built into the top of the back of the chair. The stocks gripped the top of my goldfish bowl mask. The lip of my goldfish bowl mask was just above the top side of the hole in the stocks, with the top of my head open to the air through the hole in the stocks.

I sat crying and begging in agony and was ignored, as my captors brought the wooden ladder like arrangement to where I sat.

This was put in front of me. But in my pain I hardly noticed what was happening and had no idea what it was being done for.

The “ladder” had two steps: at either side of the second step as a rigid upright pole. The ladder was tilted at an angle in front of the chair where my lovely legs were. Thereafter, it was secured to the front arms of the chair and to where its bottom end was on the floor plate the chair was mounted upon.

The second and last step of the ladder was at the level of my knees. I therefore now had two ladder steps in front of me, leading up to the height of my lap.

I continue to cry out my never-ending agony as the spikes that had gone right through my love-lips and were protruded visibly up between my thighs, tortured me unbearably painfully.

Yet I could see through my lovely dark brown eyes opening and closing as waves of pain swept through my tortured nectar-pot, that my beloved Lady Sonia was inspecting the arrangements fixed to my chair.

“I can wait if someone else needs to go first” Lady Sonia said calmly and cooly.

“No. Please”, said one of the Japanese women who had not spoken before, “You have entertained us so wonderfully that on this occasion it is not bad manners for the host to go first.”

“Thank you”, said Lady Sonia, and at that I watched through the terrible pain filling my sex, Lady Sonia’s dainty white stiletto sling-back shod feet standing on and testing the first step of the ladder in front of me. Lady Sonia then turned and nodded to her guests as if to say, this is good, very safe and very sound.

She then, still holding one of the upright poles to steady herself, she took the second step and trod immediately thereafter, without the least hesitation or consideration, with the full painful compressing pressure of her stiletto heels on my totally naked flesh, on my bare thighs, using my nude thighs as if they were a platform.

I screamed and howled with the pain as she stood on my thighs in her stilettos driving the spikes that were already deeply into the back of my thighs as I sat, even further into me.

Her cruel heels pressed the flesh and muscle of my glorious thighs into agonising deep hollows that would soon turn to heel-imprint-matching blue-black bruises where she had stood in her heels, and I screamed with the pain.

My eyes closed with the purgatory I was in, as Lady Sonia stood on my nude thighs. She had at first faced me, but was turning now. I felt some relief from the terrible stilettos, as she must have sat down on the top of the stocks-containing-frame that was above my head.

I opened my eyes and could see the gorgeous calves of Lady Sonia’s expensively stockinged legs. And around her calves were her lowered panties.

I looked up within my transparent helmet mask, as if I needed to, to be sure of what was being done to me.

I looked up and saw Lady Sonia’s gloriously beautiful naked sex above me, her panties having been taken down, her skirt hem having been lifted away and, as I looked up a strong gush of Lady Sonia’s urine hit the front of my goldfish bowl mask as she relieved herself into my helmet fully, to the point where her last drips anointed my lovely top-of-head-coiled hair.

I flicked my eyelids to remove the horrible burning urine that had splash-bedewed them and between Lady Sonia’s lovely calves I saw all her guests in paroxysms of mocking laughter as they pointed at me.

I began to sob with my pain and this, this abject rejection of my humanity, this cruellest of cruel use of me.

Lady Sonia climbed down, “Who’s next?” she asked.

These young Japanese would never have normally done in such a public way what they now did to me, as each in turn stepped up the two ladder rungs to walk brutally on the platform made by my nude thighs, take down her panties and pee into my all but hermetically sealed helmet mask.

Even as the fourth girl urinated on my head and down my face within the mask, the mask was full beyond my mouth and approaching my nostrils.

The horror of the acidic pee in which my chin and lovely mouth lips bathed was increased by its heat and its terrible stench, I sobbed and cried and tears ran down my beautiful face to add themselves to the urine that was now above my nose as the fifth and sixth girl pissed on my head and face.

Lady Sonia and companions watched with absolutely unshakeable concentration, staring in fascination at my face in the mask and cheering in savage uninhibited celebration as I, as I was forced to unless I wished to drown, opened my pretty mouth, closed my lovely eyes, and swallowed three large gulps of the pee in which my face was being covered.

Even as I swallowed, another pretty girl was sitting on the human toilet that I was made into by my bondage, and her urine was running through my lovely hair into my head bowl to raise the pee level above my nose once more and cause me to have to drink the hot stinking filthy salty acidic mouth burning nostril nauseating pee in which I would otherwise certainly choke.

Over the course of the next hour, all thirty girls emptied their bladders into my helmet, some of them more than once, as they re-charged themselves with drink, and I swallowed what must have been some two gallons of the indescribably disgusting stinking urine.

Even as I obediently played my role as a human toilet, I suffered the never-ending agony of their high heels on my now completely bruised nude thighs, the spikes on which I was sitting and, by literally the longest possible margin not least, the savage spikes that were right through my poor love-lips.

In the midst of the enjoyment of my torture it went all but unnoticed by Lady Sonia and her guests that I had, as was inevitable, filled as my poor belly was being by my enforced swallowing of pint after pint of pee over the space of the hour, let go my own bladder and, under the chair to which I was impaled by the brutal spikes, the chamber pot was half-filled by my pee, for the greater part the pee of my torturers recycled through my lovely body.

It was Lady Sonia, of course it would be Lady Sonia, who heard the musically pretty dribbling of my pee as it trickled into the metal chamber pot.

The relief of my bladder brought back the memory, as if I could ever forget, of what had been done to me in the girl-cage. As a consequence, my quim, now that it had for the moment done its secondary duty, began, strangely and perversely began, to feel the pleasure of my terrible pain and total helplessness and absolute degradation.

In spite of everything that I was suffering still, and I was even then nearly up to my nostrils in girl-pee, I once more began to feel my girlness. I was humiliated girl. I was tortured girl. But I was also sexual and sexy girl. For me, though I would never have been able to admit it to myself then, there was a form of sex and sexual pleasure and relief that was of a higher calling than that experienced by the average girl, whatever the average girl may enjoy to bring her off.

I normally had willpower over this and would never admit in my routine day-to-day life that it had any part to play with me. But I am a girl. A very, very sexy girl. I have my needs and, if my needs could be fulfilled only under the heavy cruelty I was enduring, my lovely head brain was going to have to stand aside while she, the mistress between my legs, the mistress that knew what my head brain would always and forever deny, would have to take over from the head brain of the normal me to ensure I satisfied my physical cravings.

She between my legs now had command over me. She ordered my head brain to move entirely to one side. Her command over me was total. My head brain surrendered without resistance. She between my legs moistened her wonderful lips and began to dribble with the excitement of having all my girlbody at her command. For winning the battle over my head brain, she then raised her victory standards, by causing my exquisite nipples to erect and harden. Her sword, my clitoris, was already coming out of its scabbard.

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