Satisfied that my ass was now clean, not to mention thoroughly humiliated, Ms. Martens admonished that we still had a lot of work to do and beckoned me to follow her over to the spacious shower stall. Awaiting in the shower was a chair. I didn't understand. Ms. Martens removed my ball gag and then pointed at the chair.
`Sit down and remove your Keds,' she ordered. I did so, unlacing each of my sneakers in turn.
Go ahead, kiss them,' she added. Not quite sure what she wanted me to do, I offered a generous kiss to each white rubber sidewall. Now lick the soles,' she commanded. I did as she ordered, wetting the beige rubber soles with my tongue. And a kiss for the blue label, too,' added Ms. Martens. You have to demonstrate reverence for your sneakers, slave. We don't worship heels here. These sneakers aren't just reminders of your feminine sensibilities, but also a symbol of your submission to Me. Understand, slave?'
`Yes, Mistress. I'll remember,' I responded softly.
`Good. Now hand them to me,' she continued. I did so, and she carefully placed them atop the examination table, before fetching a few items from one of the drawers. When she returned, my wrists were soon bound behind my back and my ankles were tethered to cuffs already secured to the back legs of the chair. Ms. Martens then fastened a very high black rubber posture collar around my neck. It was at least four inches high and contoured at the top to mimic the line of chin. Once it was tightened, it was nearly impossible to turn my head.
Ms. Martens then removed my white rubber swim cap and began to brush my hair, which was quite matted and tangled, having been so long confined under the cap. I then spied Ms. Martens in a nearby mirror, standing behind me, holding a pair of scissors and shears. Was she going cut off my hair?! How could I explain that? It wouldn't grow back in two weeks.
I pleaded with her. `Please, Mistress. Please don't cut my hair. Everyone's always been envious of me. Please...'
Shut up, slave, or I'll cut it all off!' barked Ms. Martens, obviously annoyed at my protests. Grabbing a handful of my hair and pulling sharply, she continued her admonishments. What did I tell you when you arrived here this morning? I told you that your body was now Mine. Your mouth, your tits, your cunt, your ass... everything. And that includes your hair. I think you should reconsider your position. I don't want to shave you bald, so don't make me, but you do need to be trimmed for the next phase of your training. Long hair is impractical. It gets all tangled in the hoods... It simply won't do.'
`As my slave you'll be neatly cropped. Is that understood?' continued Ms. Martens, returning from the examination table once again with yet another implement.
`Yes, Mistress. I'm sorry,' I replied apologetically, not wanting to incur her further wrath.
Good, that's better,' added Ms. Martens smugly. But you still need to be punished for your insolence. I was going to wait until later to put you under the clamp, but you've left me little choice now.'
Almost out of character, Ms. Martens then knelt and began licking my breasts, first the underside, before tracing upwards to each of my nipples, sucking them. I quivered. My nipples hardened, preempting her surprising suckles, erect at even the thought. As Ms. Martens began to fit each of my nipples with the metal clamps, she warned me. `And I'd better not hear one peep out of you. Not one, or else I'll fit you with a gag for the balance of the day. I don't think your jaw would like that very much, so I bid you silent.'
It sounded like sensible advice to me. I winced mightily, clenching my teeth, as each clamp was in turn fitted to my nipples and tightened very slowly and painfully.
`Now then, where were we?' chided Ms. Martens, as she stood back to admire my new adornments, soon returning to the matter of my grooming. Her hands worked quickly and skillfully. My long locks falling wayside, draping across my shoulders, covering my lap. I shed a hidden tear for vanity's sake at the loss of my cherished tresses. A sentiment I'm sure was not at all lost on my Mistress.
When she was finished, I looked boyish, like Winona Ryder at her closest coiffing. Only the wispiest of bangs remained, and although the posture collar prevented me from confirming it, I surmised as Ms. Martens teased what little hair remained that not a strand could find the full length of my neck. Nay, certainly not as Ms. Martens removed my posture collar and tidied up the back.
`Well, what do you think, slave?' taunted Ms. Martens, holding aloft a hand mirror so that I could see her handiwork.
`It's j-just hard, Mistress. I've worn my hair long for years and years. It's going to take some getting used to. I mean, don't get me wrong, you did a great job, Mistress. I just look boyish.'
I prefer to think of it as spritely and neat,' retorted Ms. Martens, almost pixielike. You look more like a proper rubberslave now.'
With that, Ms. Martens gathered the larger clumps of hair from the shower base and disposed of them. She then undid my ankle restraints and helped me to my feet. She took the chair out of the shower and placed it against the back wall. It had served its purpose. Still clad in her tight black rubber leotard, Ms. Martens then removed her own Keds, setting them next to mine, before joining me in the shower, drawing the curtain closed beside us.
Ms. Martens turned on the water, placing herself between me and the showerhead. As I watched almost hypnotically the water beading and cascading off her rubber suit, she adjusted the temperature to a nice warm stream, before exposing me to the fullness of the jet. I knew she might be reticent to admit it, but she was protecting me, and I appreciated it. Believe it or not, it definitely made me feel cared for.
As I watched the last traces of my hair go down the drain, Ms. Martens undid my wrist cuffs from behind my back and refastened them to an eyebolt hanging from the ceiling. Ms. Martens then tended to me. First she brushed my teeth. This she did carefully and attentively, a more thorough brushing than I usually strive for, to be sure. When she was done, she ordered me to rinse with a few mouthfuls of water, and then offered me a drink of mouthwash.
Telling me to close my eyes, she added shampoo to what was left of my hair, rubbing it in, ensuring my docility. Ms. Martens massaged my scalp for the better part of a few wonderful minutes, before rinsing my head under the soothing stream. One of her probing fingers simultaneously reached downward, parting me, cleaning between my lips with the mild shampoo, the merest prequel of what was to come.
I opened my eyes and watched as she collected some moisturizing soap and a razor. With perhaps five or six swift but skillful strokes per pit, Ms. Martens shaved my underarms. She then spread my legs apart and placed my left foot up on one of the hand bars of the shower, forcing me to shift my weight more to my arms above me. After lathering my pubic area, Ms. Martens carefully finished what I had started that morning. Before I arrived, I made sure that I was neat. Now I was totally bare.
Given everything that was happening, part of me felt I should find all of this utterly offensive and appalling. But I didn't. Having my teeth brushed for me and being shaved by another woman, it should all seem more humiliating, more embarrassing than it did. Shouldn't I be more revolted by this surrender, even if it was just a reflex response to my loss of autonomy? Strangely, it didn't feel all that embarrassing. Vulnerable, yes. Submissive, entirely. I felt like putty in her hands. I was discovering more about myself than I was ready to admit and this was just the start of my servitude. What else was I to learn?
I then watched as Ms. Martens slipped on a pair of nubby white gloves. I'm sure you won't find this at all unpleasant, slave, at least not the loofah,' insisted Ms. Martens, now turn around.'
I turned and felt her place a glob of grainy textured goop on my back, which she quickly began to rub on with the gloves in gentle circular motions. The feeling was scintillating ^Ö gentle, yet rough. I was being shined in a most personal way. She polished my arms, my entire back, the backs of both legs, and then, with another large drop of what I had learned was sugar, burnished the fullness of my backside. When I was made gently rosey to her contentment, Ms. Martens turned me around and went to work on my anterior. She exfoliated the underside of my arms, my chest, my torso, and the front of each leg. She did this all the while careful to avoid the clamps still painfully affixed to each of my tortured nipples, a reminder of my earlier transgression. A transgression I thought wise not to reprise.
With even more sugar and strength my Mistress paid particular attention to my elbows and knees. I moaned from the sheer enjoyment, my entire body glowing, my head hanging heavy. In my mind, I could no longer formulate words, thoughts. I merely felt. And I continued to feel cared for. I felt special. I must have some other meaning for her to spend so much time on me, certainly more than an orifice for her pleasure? Mindful of my withdrawal, she broke my reverie by telling me there was pleasure still to come, but that I must wait.
After she rinsed me off, Ms. Martens retrieved a stainless steel hose attachment, which was neatly draped over a spool near the faucet, and turned on the adjoining valve, causing a steady stream of warm water to spray from its head. She held it up for me to see. When Ms. Martens saw that I contemplated it, that I fully comprehended it, she turned me around and told me to get up on my toes and stick out my ass. She teased my crack with the silver bullet, running it up and down between my cheeks, before applying a dab of KY and ramming it up my ass.
You've already had your enema, slave,' Ms. Martens assured me, you don't have to hold this. It's just to make sure that you're clean. Relax.'
I did as she suggested or rather ordered. As she moved the bullet around in my ass, I felt the water running right back out of me, as I made no attempt to clench or retain it. The gentle pulsing of the water felt kind of good back there, and when Ms. Martens noticed that I was enjoying it too much, she withdrew the nozzle and again ordered me to turn around, this time facing her.
She applied a glob of liquid soap to the spewing bullet and cleaned it off, looking quite deliberate and devious in her movements, with each stroke simulating intercourse. After tracing the metallic head downward from my sternum to my navel, she forcefully backed me against the shower wall. There was power and purpose in her actions, and I doubt that I could have stopped her even if my arms weren't still bound. She looked me straight in the eyes, her eyes never leaving mine, and shoved the silver bullet deep inside my hungry pussy.
`Hold that there,' ordered Ms. Martens. I crossed my legs as best I could.
Ms. Martens then took both of her hands and stroked my cheeks with her thumbs, her fingers on my temples. She traced the lines of my brow and elsewhere, likewise tracing her finger along my chin, gently rubbing my earlobes.
As her fingers found my compliant lips, she muttered under her breath, `You are so fucking beautiful,' and then leaned forward and kissed me.
I went weak. Breathlessly, I followed her every lead, not interrupting our soul kiss. Our lips mashed, our tongues mingled wildly. It was primal. It was passionate. For just one second, I was outside of my body, looking down at us. Luminous beings. I tried to keep this image in my mind as my Mistress raped me with her mouth.
I felt her hands on the nipple clamps, her fingers fumbling with the thumbscrews, increasing and decreasing the pressure, playing my nipples like an instrument. The pain was electric. Bolts of pain mixed with pleasure coursing throughout my body now, not just my bosom.
Her kiss heavy upon me, with turrets of warm water pulsing guttural within me, I could resist no longer. I was swept away - nay, pulverized, by an orgasm so essential, so beyond any previous reckoning. Base. Primal. Raw.
And then another soon after, and at least one more. I don't know. I was trembling in her arms when Ms. Martens joined me, screaming in a chorus of pleasure, her right hand leaving my nipples for but a few seconds, enabling her own conclusion. A few seconds. Long enough, it seemed.
I was spent. I collapsed, my weight literally hanging dead upon my numb arms. I went tone deaf, listening to the seemingly distant, cavernous echo of the shower as the water continued to rain down upon my limp body. Pooling, retreating, spiraling down the drain, seeking its inevitable exit at the Niagara of my perception. Every drop of water giving rise to rumbling, echoing seamlessly like distant thunder.
Ms. Martens had disappeared from the shower, returning minutes later herself quite a bit dryer. She turned off the water and I returned to a state of semi-reality. Ms. Martens had a large white towel with her and she began drying me off. Soft and luxurious, the towel had been warmed, much like it had been hanging over a radiator. Her touch seemed especially comforting, and more familiar than ever. As she drew closer and reached around to dry my backside, I rested my head upon her shoulder. She held me like a little girl, as she stretched to unfasten my wrist restraints. As my body slumped into her strong embrace, she held me there, hugging me, neither of us saying anything.
`Come, dear. Let's tend to your punishment,' Ms. Martens finally quipped, softly, with a kiss for my forehead, ending a delicious moment in perfunctory manner.
Punishment, Mistress? I don't understand.,' I pleaded meekly. What did I do?'
You weren't given permission to cum, slave,' replied Ms. Martens, still holding me. I was certainly going to let you, that much I'll admit, but we can't do this properly if there is to be no discipline, no control.'
This was all too much for me, given my weakened state. I broke down into tears.
Shhhhhh. Come now, slave,' said my Mistress almost pleadingly, wiping the tears from my cheeks. Don't worry. I'm confident you'll catch on. You have too much potential not to,' assured the cruel domme, as she broke our embrace and held the cherry red rubber ball gag in front of me.
I gulped resignedly and opened my mouth. Ms. Martens looked almost conciliatory as she pushed the rubber ball past my teeth and set about securing the straps. With my gag again strapped tightly in place, she sat me down on the nearby bench and began fitting me with my white Keds once more. On her knees before me, a mixed signal, tending to me like a little girl, my every need, she confuses me.
Once my sneakers, my canvas rubber prisons, were tightly laced, Ms. Martens pulled me to my feet and led me over to what looked like the vaulting horse used in gymnastics. She positioned my feet more than shoulder length apart and began fastening my ankles to the legs of the horse. Once my legs were secured, Ms. Martens placed matching restraints around each of my wrists before bending me over the horse and securing them to attachment points along the legs of the horse. As I lied there bent over, my posterior displayed like it was, the blood rushing to my head, I caught a glimpse of Ms. Martens thoughtfully selecting a paddle from among many hanging on a nearby wall.
Day One,' I pondered, marking my time, was it even noon yet?'