The click of heels returned, and again, she listened to her fellow captive being tortured. The muted cries of the other captive suggested the gag and helmet were not Lydia’s alone to endure.

Several times, Lydia had to fend off the desire to be under the lash. She was revolted to find herself dreamily soaking up the cruel signal of the weapon and the creak of shackles under straining limbs. The vision of her enslaver was constantly in the forefront of her mind, along with a driving lecherous need. Her insidious tutor had taught her a whole new catalogue of erotic fantasies to dwell upon, and they were all the more difficult to deny because of the assured prospect of their implementation.

The envy Lydia felt passed as the other prisoner was returned to the subterranean cell after long hours of exclusive attention. To her joy, the locks of her pit opened and her chain towed her out. The pull lifted her arms and strained them heartlessly.

“Come on, slave, out you go, it’s time for some more lessons in obedience,” said the woman with bland tones.

The jaws of the steel helm yawned and removed their burden from her head, letting her arms finally move back down. The limbs pounded with a galloping throb from the return of circulation and normality, making Lydia gurgle and whimper.

The straps of the gag parted, and as the bulb deflated with a hiss, her jaws found great delight in being able to close. She licked her parched lips and stretched her tongue. The corners of the hood were grabbed and the sheath of rubber peeled off, the latex sticking to the sheen of moisture she had generated in her prison.

The groaning sigh of the stretching material had Lydia wilting in awe, the sound glorious to her trained ears. The departure of the garment had allowed her to finally look up with light-starved eyes from her kneeling position and close her tenderized mouth. An almost angel-like haze surrounded the mistress and the dazzling quality of the light, which illuminated the towering latex ruler, enforced the divine quality of this dominant sadist. Lydia had stared solely into a featureless void for so long that this initial vision was a spellbinding affair, no less so than for her mistress’ salacious apparel.

Lydia lifted her gaze across patent-leather thigh-high boots. The gloss material clung to her legs, following the weaving contours. Lydia’s eyes moved next to the fishnet stockings stretched upon firm thighs and then slipped beneath the hem of a low-cut latex dress. The sight of the mistress’ cleavage, held by this now-intoxicating fabric, had the prisoner wilting with desire. The stern visage glared down at her and made her feel even more insignificant and humble. In one latex-gloved hand, she held a crop while in the other a bowl of porridge. It was an offering that caused Lydia’s stomach to instantly growl.

“Lick my legs, and you may eat, slave,” commanded the mistress, adding further incentive to comply with her wishes.

Desperate for both meals, Lydia leant down and began to run her tongue across the smooth panel of the pointed toes. To her astonishment and confusion, she was being aroused by this act of derogation, and while she lapped at the boots and lingered upon the heel, groveling before the mistress with her hands still tied behind her back, she found unexpected pleasure in her toil. She had been forced to do this for the guards in the prison above and had loathed every second. There had been a hint of pleasure but nothing as powerful and distinct as this. She enjoyed it, she relished being low before this glorious female; she wallowed like a beast at her mistress’ heels and fawned over them.

“That will do, slave. You’ve earned your meal,” the woman said. Satisfied with Lydia’s performance, she set down the bowl and watched as her captive gulped down the thick, cold sludge. It only took moments for her to fully devour the food and it immediately restored her senses. It was a recuperation that left her with a bubbling nausea from the base spectacle she had made of herself, and from the eerie satisfaction she had found in her lowly worship.

Once she had licked the bowl clean, Lydia was dismayed to see the gag hanging in the mistress’ grip. This time, though, when the implement was opened and pushed between her lips she merely opened her mouth and accepted the baleful tool without resistance or complaint. There was no fight because Lydia was using the application as a wondrous chance to peer closely at her mistress and gaze into her hovering cleavage.

“Now that we’ve filled this hungry little mouth, we’ll ensure it stays that way,” commented the woman.

The mistress locked the gag back onto Lydia’s face, inflated it to the customary aching point and took rein on the shackles holding her hands behind her back.

“Come this way, slave,” she ordered, drawing Lydia up by the restraints, taking the prisoner toward the wall and beneath two dangling hooks in the ceiling. These were two heavy loops spaced well apart. Lydia squeezed her jaws against the gag, the balloon forcing them against the straps, the corners already starting to throb once more.

“I’ve got wonderfully stern bondage for you to try, and you’ll like it, won’t you, slave? Because it’ll please me to see you suffer?” she asked, making Lydia nod dramatically.

“Good slave,” she replied and patted Lydia’s gag, her face stretched into a muted freeze-frame wail by the implement.

The dominatrix removed a full set of restraints. The thick leather cuffs were methodically locked to her ankles and to her elbows. The jolly titter from the buckles set butterflies free in Lydia’s stomach.