I woke in the morning and pondered the craft project I had been enjoyably working on for months that was very close to completion. I decided I wanted to complete it. I knew it could take between two and three hours to do so. How should I keep my puppet occupied during that time in a way that would bring me even more pleasure while I finished my project? An hour or so later, the answer came to me when. I heard my puppet upstairs, using the shredder. (As you might imagine, dear reader, the writing I do creates a good number of preliminary drafts that need shredding. That is my puppets job.) I called him to me and told him to dress in frill topped ankle socks and one of his shortened dresses that comes down only to his hips and then set up the baby monitor camera on the landing, and receiver in the sitting room. He looked confused and anxious but obeyed.
I joined him on the landing. I have a few pairs of acrylic dumbbells I use as part of my exercise regimen. I told him to get on his hands and knees at one end of the landing. He began to whimper while I used padlocks and chains and cuffs to secure each of his wrists and ankles to one of four dumbbells. He went to speak. In a very harsh tone, I responded before even his first syllable was completed.
‘Shut it maggot! If I need a contribution from you, I will ask for it!’ He was ready.
I walked to the study and returned carrying the bin of the shredder. It was full of shredder waste. I will mention here I was wearing skin tight leggings of a very thin fabric and I had put on my seven-inch, bedroom, platform mules. I stood by him and then he watched as I walked away from him along the landing. I walked, catwalk style with each foot crossing the centre line of my body as I placed it down. I knew he would be captivated by the sight of my beautiful butt and hips moving and swaying delectably. But he whimpered miserably as he understood what was afoot. As I walked, I held the bin, tipped slightly lower than the horizontal, and I shook it, tipping shredder waste onto the floor; all along the landing. I quietly hummed contentedly to myself as I did so. At the far end of the landing, I turned so he looked at me and me at him, and I upturned the bin completely and shook out the remaining contents of the bin onto the floor. I walked back to him and dropped the bin by him on the floor. He looked up at me.
‘I have some craft work to do for a while and I wanted to fully enjoy myself while I do that. And to fully enjoy myself means having you properly miserable at the same time. Therefore, you now need to pick up all the shredder waste and put it in the bin, even though you have heavy weights on each wrist and ankle; I’m sure you will find a way. Now and again, I will be watching on the baby monitor receiver for my amusement, and also to check you are working hard at your chore. I may come up to you and ‘encourage’ you with the agitation whip or dressage whip, if you are not working hard enough, or just for my cruel amusement. Now, get on with it bitch!’ He looked so despondent. He did not know how much worse for him it would become. I was sure it was to be far worse for him than he imagined at this moment! I walked away again, humming contentedly as I made my way downstairs.
Downstairs I relaxed with my craft work while I watched some guilty TV. Occasionally I looked over at the baby monitor receiver screen and felt that familiar, delicious, warm glow of heartless bitchiness and power. It dawned on me that my pleasure would be maximised if he felt very properly subjugated. So I took action. On the way to him I picked up my dressage whip. He had picked up perhaps a fifth of the shredding waste and he was struggling deliciously. I stood by him tapping the end of the whip against my slipper boot. Then I delivered a diagonal stroke across his butt. He yelped with the pain and there was a poignant tone to his yelp; one of his despair over his plight I guessed. I delivered further diagonal stripes to his butt at two second intervals while I spoke casually.
‘It dawned on me maggot that I had better give you a sort of deterrent punishment to make sure you are suitably dutiful while at this pointless chore. Keep going at it as I whip you.’ My power-rush was coursing through me. He began to make sobbing sounds when not issuing a yelp so I felt I had achieved my objective. I also needed an orgasm. One reason I needed an orgasm was because I knew I had not needed to give him a little whipping at all to ensure he would be dutiful!
He would have heard my subsequent orgasmic cries in our quiet house. I then returned to my guilty TV programme and my craft work. It took him almost an hour before he seemed to be finished. I went up to him, dressage whip in hand. He had done a first-rate job, I could barely imagine the tedium and monotony that was required to pick up every single piece of shredded paper, even the tiny bits, and the struggle given the weights attached to him. He was at the opposite end of the landing to the stairs now and the bin full of shredding waste was next to him. He looked victimised, but also, silly boy, a little liberated. I picked up the full bin. He breathed audibly inward in shock and then outward with a huge sigh as I began again to tip the contents out all along the landing. I reached the top of the stairs and shook out every last remnant from the bin. Mike-drop style, I dropped the bin to the floor. I spoke over my shoulder as I began to descend the stairs. My tone was relaxed and indifferent.
‘Get to it maggot.’ I began my contented humming as I carried on down the stairs. Back on the sofa, and one glance at the baby monitor receiver screen, and once again, he would have heard my subsequent orgasmic cries in our quiet house.
—– | —–
I visited him after twenty minutes of his second spell of litter picking. Standing at the top of the stairs and looking at him in his shameful dress and socks, his collar and tiny chastity device padlocked in place, the weights to ankles and wrists and the strewn mess still to be worked on, my cunt surged. I think the feel of the handle of the dressage whip in my right hand contributed to the effect of the image presented to me. I approached him and began to whip him again. Three seconds between each stroke. Despite his pleading and sobbing I did not say a word. Sometimes, silence is much more intimidating than malevolent words. After around twenty strokes, I simply descended back downstairs, yet again there was my contented humming followed by my orgasmic cries filling our quiet house.
—– | —–
Once I saw on the baby monitor receiver screen that he had finished his second spell of litter picking, I went up to him. I reached the landing and he looked up at me with an imploring expression. He feared the worst. He was right to. He was silent. He has learned that sometimes it is better to be silent than say the wrong thing; when dealing with a pitiless, cruel, spiteful bitch like me. I picked up the bin. I walked to the opposite end of the landing from him. My expression as I looked into his eyes was of complete indifference. He began to sob and shake his head from side to side as he had correctly guessed my intention. While humming contentedly, I again tipped the shredding waste in a line all the way down the landing. I descended down the stairs, not a word had been spoken. What a huge power-rush. Yes of course, dear reader, my orgasmic screams filled our quiet house.
—– | —–
Once I saw on the baby monitor receiver screen that he had finished his third spell of litter picking, I went up to him again. As before he looked up at me with an intensely imploring expression but he did now also whisper over and over again, ‘Please Mistress, please Mistress, please Mistress.’ He feared the worst. With a raised right eyebrow, I looked at him, my expression radiated a, shall-I, shan’t I, state of mind. He began to sob. He was so distressed and vulnerable. This was a high-stakes, emotionally intense moment indeed. The most exhilarating type of all the DS moments that one experiences! I spoke calmly.
‘Twenty very hard strokes with the dressage whip, or I tip the bin again? Your choice.’ He looked like he might cry. He thought for a very long moment, my cunt surged. These were delicious high-stakes, emotionally intense moments again. Eventually, he chose the whipping. I walked to him, placing the bin down on the floor on my way to him. My tone was hard-hearted.
‘Count each stroke and thank me.’ I allowed up to five seconds between each hard stroke. I think in the absence of bondage, the weights on his ankles and wrists performed a useful bondage role. His tone became poignantly despairing when I reached TWENTY-ONE, and then I continued to TWENTY-FIVE! This was so exhilarating. I allowed him to recover his breath and disposition. I looked over my shoulder to check he was watching me walk away from him. Of course he was. Torturing himself looking at my butt. I reached the bin and I kicked it hard. It went tumbling across the landing disgorging three-quarters of its contents. I heard two gloomy, overwhelmed, desolate, long sighs. I spoke over my shoulder in an ice-cold tone as I descended the stairs.
‘Get on with it maggot.’ First, he would have heard my contented innocent humming to myself. Then it was not long at all before he heard my loudest and most passionate orgasmic cries of the day!