The Chair
Goddess Shriya returns, and brings a new level of suffering to her pig-slave. A not-safe-for-work short story.
It was just an office chair, but in her hands it became an inescapable prison. Leather straps of all shapes and sizes wound their way around my body, each thoughtfully placed with a rehearsed precision. In just a few minutes I was firmly secured and barely able to move.
Unable to resist.
The cold pack on my lap had done its job. My penis was soft and small in her warm, slender fingers. Easy to manipulate as she slid it into a steel cage. Even with the ice, it felt small and tight. A band clipped around the base of my genitals, squeezing tight and clicking loudly as she secured it with a padlock. The key dangled on a thin chain around her neck.
Attention turned to my nipples. Fingers pinched at skin, raising it so the serrated teeth of crocodile clips could bite. Six for each, circling the small button of pink.
Finally she looked at me. Such beauty. A Marathi Goddess who captured my heart and soul. Perfection for whom I would do anything. Suffer anything.
“Does it hurt?”
I soaked up the rich tones of her voice.
“Yes, Goddess,” I answered.
A hint of a smile appeared on her plump red lips. I saw it only briefly, as in the next instant she pushed the hood down over my head. It slid easily, helped by the soft lambskin inside that offered some comfort as she tugged it into place. As the zip came down, the leather tightened against my face. My vision shrank to what two small eyelets offered. It was enough.
Goddess stepped back, hands on hips, eyes moving over her handiwork. A stunning vision of strength and curves that took my breath away.
“Are you ready, pig?”
My last chance to escape. Why would I?
“Please, Goddess Shriya, please punish me. Please make me suffer for you.”
Heart pounding. Panting. Shivering. Desperate for it to start. Afraid that it would.
She was behind me. The world went dark as she snapped a final eyemask over my brow. A strap settled across my brow, then pulled my head back against the chair’s rest.
“This is what you want, isn’t it?” she hissed in my ear.
Foolishly I tried to nod. It added to the wonderful excitement growing inside.
“Say it,” she snapped and hit my cheek as emphasis.
“I want to be your slave,” I gasped.
“All of it.”
Why was it so hard to say when we both knew it was the truth? When I’d said it so many times before?
“I want to be your slave, Goddess Shriya.”
“Fool!” she laughed. “Why would I want a ‘boy’ as a slave when I can have men?”
Her dismissal landed hard on my chest, and the wind flew out of my lungs. I surged against the straps, as if I had any hope of reaching out to her. Holding her. Pleading for her to own me.
She already did. I was hers the moment I revealed my fantasies and desires. I handed myself to her willingly to do with as she wished. And in her inventive way she’d turned them against me for her own sadistic pleasure.
My mouth opened to welcome the thick shaft of the gag. She snapped it into place and, once satisfied it was secure, checked the wide plastic tubes had settled in my nostrils. A final strap pulled tight against my chin.
And then the gag grew larger.
As it swelled in my mouth a panic set in. Tongue pushed down, gag butting against the back of my throat, it felt as if I was drowning. As if this was the final sacrifice for Goddess.
The warmth of her hand on my shoulder calmed me. In the noise from my fear I found the cool air streaming in through my nose and focused on it. Reminded myself I was breathing.
“Pathetic! Is this what Goddess wants from a slave?”
I’d disappointed her. I’d failed to meet her high standards, and now I feared rejection even more. I wanted to stay, to worship her, adore her, prove I was committed to absolute submission.
“You will stay here and think about why a Beautiful Indian Woman needs a pathetic, perverted, little white pig like you.”
Cups slapped against my ears and finally my hearing was taken from me. I fell back into the dark, silent world, my only stimulation a growing fire from the clips around my nipples. There was no sense of the outside, I didn’t even know if she was still there watching, or had left the house completely.
Only Goddess was with me. Towering above me, looking down her sweet, upturned nose. Wearing the plain black catsuit she’d put on that morning knowing full well how captivating she looked, and how I couldn’t respond. Replaying our visit to the supermarket, the flirting, the teasing. How I’d knelt on the floor in the kitchen and watched her round bottom as she prepared lunch. She’d laughed at me as I scrambled on hands and knees to eat what she’d chewed and spat out.
Now this. Glaring in my fantasies, demanding I answer her question. I heard her repeat it in her beautiful voice.
“Why would a stunning Desi Goddess need a pathetic, perverted, little white pig like you as a slave?”
Platitudes. Obvious responses that said nothing. I’d be a good slave. A loyal slave. A “do whatever you want” slave. Repeated over again with increasing desperation.
Masking reality.
There is no reason why beautiful Goddess Shriya needs me.
As if timed to punctuate my epiphany, the prickling started. Faint at first, localised to the tip of my glans. Then spreading. Intensifying. Demanding my attention and drawing my thoughts away from self-pity.
And there she was in my fantasies, laughing at the white pig begging her to hurt him.
Goddess Shriya leads her pig-slave into a new life of servitude as a cuckold in The Sovereign Wife.